Henry's Cold Fusion Pt. 01

(Note: All persons in this story are completely fictional, and have no connection with any person living or deceased.)

A small, solitary building the size of a semi-truck's trailer resided in cold vastness near the Transantarctic Mountains. Not far away rose the Vinson Massif, the highest mountain in Antarctica at 16,000 feet. The south pole was 700 miles distant.

When Henry arrived to man this very isolated weather station he delighted in keeping weather records daily in addition to research. The average temps ranged from 14 below in June to 26 above in January.

The winds could be strong and blow for days on end, and of course in the depth of the winter there was hardly any sun to be seen, while in the height of the summer, the sun never seemed to completely set.

Henry, 48, was university-trained and didn't mind the isolation. For his first year there, he was joined by two male assistants in their 20s. They soon wearied of the lack of more company and the day-to-day routine, and after they begged to be reassigned, they were. What they didn't say was that the bearded Henry was the silent type, was quite set in his ways, his political views were considerably to the right of theirs, and he didn't hold back on those views. Also, he always had to be right, even if he wasn't (they thought).

The station was usually powered by a generator which was started up to charge a large battery at intervals. In the summertime, solar panels did much of the charging. The station had communications with other Antarctic stations via a satellite relay system (which also offered the Internet). Henry brought with him his ham radio equipment, with which, when atmospheric conditions were favorable, he could talk to other hams around the world. If he ever failed to get the generator started or he lost his propane supply, or both, especially in the deep dark of winter, he could be in trouble.

After a year alone, his American bosses 1200 miles away at McMurdo Station, thinking he really did need some help and company, decided to send another assistant for a time. He looked at the text message: The name was Rozalind Rally, age 24. Were they serious? Was this a joke? All he needed was a female around who he'd have to train and deal with her moods.

On a sunny January day, a winterized C-130 prop plane on skis landed nearby with supplies, some new equipment, some items he'd ordered from Amazon, and Rozalind. She was a short, somewhat pudgy woman wearing a bright-red, quilted jacket, and from what Henry could see, was very plain-looking. She joshed with the airmen a little, helped the men load accumulated trash into the beefy plane, and then waved goodbye as it went airborne amid blowing snow.

As the sound of the plane faded, Henry and Rozalind were left all alone next to his outside weather instruments and their severely plain home-to-be. Henry didn't quite have the words to be nice, and so it was left to her to say, "Well, I'm glad to be here. It's good to meet you."

To which Henry said, slightly gruffly, "Welcome, Rozalind."

"Just call me Roz. Everyone calls me Roz."

"Roz, it will be nice to have someone else here again." What he really meant to say was, "Don't give me a hard time."

Inside her new home, where the air was a toasty 65 degrees, they removed their coats and sat down to enjoy some coffee, with the sunlight streaming in.

Roz, Henry observed, had straw-colored, shoulder-length straight hair, rosy cheeks, and for her size, generous breasts. There was something quite businesslike and workaday about her. Her mouth was small and she wore the tiniest of earrings. But she appeared to be clean and in good health.

First they talked about the post-grad work she did at the University of Pennsylvania regarding Antarctic weather, and then the duties she performed at McMurdo Station. Now, she said, she wanted to help him in his work as much as possible, to learn from him, and also to do some additional research of her own.

Henry tried to fill her in on his duties and work days. She said she'd been briefed on that.

She wanted to know about his family life. Henry explained that his wife had died after only five years of marriage in their thirties, and that he'd never remarried. No children. She said she'd had a brief relationship at the U of Penn but nothing serious.

"So," said Roz, "to avoid any misunderstandings or whatever, I will say to clear the air that I'm not interested in any sex with you. I'm perfectly happy being asexual."

"Good," said Henry, surprised at her frankness. "That's fine with me. I've never used the work asexual for myself, but I'm happy in that way as well. Good."

Henry asked her what the fellows and women at McMurdo had told her about him.

"You really want to know? One of my faults is honesty - you sure you want to know?"

"Well, yes." So now he was finally going to get the poop on his standing in the science community.

"You are highly regarded as a reliable and proficient scientist, able to handle the adversities of polar living. You have contributed some important insights and data."

"I have the feeling there's more."

"I don't want to hurt your feelings, but yes, there's more. Your nickname at McMurdo is Aunt Henrietta."

Henry's face turned crimson. "And that's because . . . "

"When you were at McMurdo they somehow detected that you wore women's underwear, and . . . they suspected that when you're alone you like to dress as a woman. . . . Well, do you?"

Henry hesitated. "By the way, please call me Hank. I'm Hank. Never called myself Henrietta. But . . . you know . . . I have never had a conversation about this with anyone except my wife, many years ago. But OK, yes, I do enjoy dressing as a woman. Been doing it off and on since my teens."

"If you did it around me here," said Roz, "tell the truth, it would make me uncomfortable. Dressing entirely in women's clothing is what I mean. I certainly don't mind what underwear you're wearing or what you do in private."

"Oh, sure. I would, on my side, feel uncomfortable dressing around you. So we're good."

"Do you use a female name; have a separate female identity?"

"I've always liked 'Lisa' - but I've never seen myself as two separate people."

The two of them settled into life on the frigid and featureless plain. Hank found that Roz was a quick learner, was very adept at math and writing, and was a fair cook - certainly better than him. They quickly divided their responsibilities and things went quite smoothly.

Hank grudgingly recognized he felt a growing attraction to her, being the only woman for hundreds of miles. It helped that she was upbeat and didn't get moody or evasive. But he wasn't the type to try to attempt anything.

Once in a while, he'd spot a panty or bra or a box of tampons, and that kindled a further interest in her.

They had their separate, small bedrooms, about the size of economy-class cabins on a cruise ship. Once in a while, Hank would lay in his bed at night fantasizing about Roz fingering herself to orgasm, and that might set him off to do the same thing.

One night after Roz had been with him a month, there was a knock on his door that interrupted his sleep. Because it was the middle of the southern hemisphere summer, all his shades were pulled tightly shut to keep the nearly day-long daylight out at three in the morning. "Hello?," he answered.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

"Look, I hate to wake you up."

She walked in. Hank forgot he was wearing a cotton nightie.

Roz: "Oh. Nightgown. I might have figured that."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, why I'm here. I'm a bit embarrassed. I have hardly ever in my entire life slept in a bedroom alone. I slept with my sister growing up, I shared a dorm room in college, and at McMurdo I shared with another woman. And here, I just feel so goddamn alone. It makes it hard to sleep. There's just the four walls and all that quiet. It's like, I don't know, I need the glow of another person nearby to make me feel relaxed."

"I've never had that problem. Sleeping, that is."

"Look, Hank, I know I'm asking a lot, and it's personal, but I wonder if from time to time I could maybe take my sleeping bag in here and sleep on the floor."

"Yes, as long as I can wear my nighties, since they're my security blanket, so to speak."

"That's OK."

And so she did, four "nights" out of five. She didn't snore. After a week of that, Hank found her slipping into bed with him and parking herself on the far other side of the bed. Her in her nightie and he in his. His was fancier.

He thought she was applying a faint perfume, only to realize that it was the scented shampoo she used.

He wished she'd reach out for his cock, or maybe want to kiss, but that was not to be. On the occasional night she didn't join him at the usual time, he got to masturbate.

Other than their watching TV shows via satellite, she began to entertain him from time to time with her guitar, which she played with skill. On the other hand, her voice was a disappointment. Hank would sometimes whistle along.

That's the way their inner lives intersected for three months, as the daily hours of daylight gradually shrunk. Then she up and suggested a change.