Under Story: A GMA Book Club Pick

The At the end of the world, biologist Laurel Salter is hiding from everything she’s ever known. For ten hours a day, six days per week, she works as a dishwasher at McMurdo Station, an isolated research base in Antarctica. She tells no one that before she arrived, she was a renowned young scientist with a promising career, a husband, and a family. But even in this remote outpost, Laurel can’t outrun her past. When a strange light appears across the ice--and draws a group of physicists to McMurdo--her former husband, Eli, won''t be far behind. Laurel is captivated by the Arc: its surreal glow; the way it seems almost alive. And though Eli is reluctant to test her wildest theory, Laurel is convinced that the Arc leads down a rabbit hole, and into a world, they can barely imagine. Can she persuade him to risk everything to fix the burden that hangs between them--to turn back the clock and live their story a second time? A breathless page-turner and a love letter to our planet, <Under Story< grapples with the great questions of our time: human hubris, the precarity of the natural world, and the mysterious webs of consciousness that bind us. A modern epic of science and soul, of bravery and redemption, it offers a vision of the future that demands we reckon with what we owe to one another, and to the earth itself.

Autorentext

Chloe Benjamin is the New York Times bestselling author of Under Story, The Immortalists, and The Anatomy of Dreams.

A Good Morning America Book Club Pick, Under Story was also an Indie Next selection, a Barnes and Noble Book Club pick, and an Amazon Editors' selection. The Immortalists—a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection, LibraryReads favorite, and #1 Indie Next pick—was named a best book of 2018 by NPR, The Washington Post, Entertainment Weekly, and others. The Anatomy of Dreams received the Edna Ferber Fiction Book Award and was long listed for the 2014 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize.

Originally from San Francisco, CA, Benjamin is a graduate of Vassar College and the M.F.A. in fiction at the University of Wisconsin. Her work has been translated into over thirty languages. She lives with her husband in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Klappentext

**GOOD MORNING AMERICA BOOK CLUB PICK

The New York Times bestselling author of The Immortalists returns with an intimate yet epic love story—and a sweeping odyssey of scientific discovery. Under Story invites us to consider the promise of this life, what might lie beyond it, and how far we would go for more time with the people we love, cementing Chloe Benjamin’s place among our best, and most lasting, storytellers.

“We wake up to tomorrow, never yesterday.”**

At the edge of the world, biologist Laurel Salter is hiding from everything she’s ever known. For ten hours a day, six days per week, she works as a dishwasher at McMurdo Station, an isolated research base in Antarctica. She tells no one that before she arrived, she was a renowned young scientist with a promising career and a family.

But even in this remote outpost, Laurel can’t escape her past. When a strange light appears across the ice—and draws a group of physicists to McMurdo—her former husband, Eli, won't be far behind. Laurel is captivated by the Arc: its surreal glow; the way it seems almost alive. And though Eli is reluctant to test her wildest theory, Laurel is convinced that the Arc leads down a rabbit hole and into a world they can barely imagine. Can she persuade him to risk everything to fix the burden that hangs between them—to turn back the clock and live their story a second time?

A breathless page-turner and a love letter to our planet, Under Story grapples with the great questions of our time: human hubris, the precarity of the natural world, and the mysterious webs of consciousness that bind us. A modern epic of science and soul, of bravery and redemption, it offers a vision of the future that demands we reckon with what we owe to one another, and to the earth itself.

Leseprobe
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1

Terra Australis

The descent into Antarctica takes Laurel by surprise. There are no windows on the plane, so she can't see the ice rise to meet her.

The aircraft, a C-17, is taller than any commercial vessel; ten feet above her head, the ceiling curves like a spaceship. People sit along the perimeter, most wearing headphones, some sleeping in the Big Red jackets they received at the Clothing Distribution Center in New Zealand. The newcomers keep their seat belts on. One of the old-timers-a man in Carhartts, sunglasses, and a short-sleeved shirt-unbuckles, ducks below chains, and lies down against a wooden cargo container, a novel tucked under his elbow.

Across from Laurel, a Black woman crosses her arms over her stomach, her short Afro behind a headband. A white man dozes into his scarf; little more than his brown curls are visible. He opens his eyes just before they touch down. During spring and summer-which take place, at the bottom of the world, from October to February-the Ross Sea is still eight feet thick, strong enough to serve as a runway.

Passengers shoulder into their jackets and begin to deplane: the old-timers sure-footed, the newcomers waddling in their government-issued boots. Cold sweeps over them in waves. The sky reminds Laurel less of Earth than of some gaseous planet, streams of indigo and violet and shocking pink, the setting sun layered between them. The mountain ranges glint behind a haze of blowing snow.

A giant red vehicle trundles toward them; "IVAN" THE TERRA BUS is painted on one side. Ivan's driver, a cheerful man in a balaclava, tells them that the bus weighs seventy thousand pounds. Laurel takes a seat beside the woman who sat across from her on the plane. After fifteen minutes, the driver announces that they've crossed the transition point where ice gives way to solid rock, and Laurel's hands unclench. Soon she sees the drab mid-century buildings that make up McMurdo Station.

The woman sitting next to Laurel snorts. "I didn't think Antarctica would look like February in Wisconsin."

Laurel smiles. "Crusty slush? Check. Giant Caterpillar machines?"

"Check." The woman pushes her sunglasses on top of her head and holds out a hand. "Charlie Morrison, from Milwaukee."

"Laurel Salter, from Madison."

"We could have carpooled to O'Hare."

"Should have. I'd have been a lot less nervous," says Laurel. "Is it your first time, too?"

Charlie nods. She looks to be near Laurel's age, thirty-six. Her eyes are perceptive, and her broad cheekbones taper to a delicate chin.

They walk together as the experts lead the newbies to the dorms. Laurel doesn't ask what brought Charlie to McMurdo, and Charlie doesn't ask her. Beyond the dirt roads of the base, the landscape is cratered, white, and endless. Pale yellow ribbons weave between clouds; mist swirls with the body of dust.

Laurel's tendency is to observe. When foraging for fungi, she looks for aberration: fleshy folds against wood, roundness amid angles. Here, something interrupts the line of the horizon. A small dome of light appears to sit over the ocean. It reminds Laurel of a bubble cut in two: faintly pink and translucent, with an iridescent skin.

The sight pulls her. It looks not of this world. Even from miles away, it seems to make a sound: a crackle, low but generative, constant.

But when she blinks, it disappears.

"Did you see that?" Laurel asks, stopping. In its absence, the sky looks innocuous, like a theater after a play.

"See what?" asks Charlie.

Laurel shakes her head. "I haven't slept well in forty-eight hours. I…