It all started when that lawyer from the Screen Actor's Guild came all the way down from Hollywood to tell us we'd been cheated by the movie producer. That we didn't have contracts wasn't important, he said. It didn't even matter that we were penguins. We still deserved our fair share of the movie proceeds. He knew a sympathetic judge who was bound to see it our way. Public opinion was fully on our side; everyone loved our movie. We were sure to get a good settlement. He said he'd work on straight commission so we figured, what the hell? What did we have to lose.

The lawsuit dragged on. Meanwhile, we debated among ourselves about what to do with the settlement money. The general consensus was to invest it, but a small faction lobbied for buying snowmobiles. How many of us were lost each year on the 60 mile Long March out to the breeding ground? These penguins could be saved if only we had a few snowmobiles to pick up stragglers. It was the compassionate thing to do. In the end, we decided to spend a small part of our settlement on two snowmobiles and put the rest into Hawaiian real estate.

The lawsuit went down just like the lawyer said. The producer settled and we got our money. The lawyer took a higher-than-expected percentage; compensation, he claimed, for a few toes lost to frostbite during a deposition.

We got our snowmobiles, top-of-the-line Bearcat WT Turbos with hitches and sleds. They were a huge success. We cut our losses in half that winter. Any penguin having trouble just stepped aside to wait for a snowmobile. Within a few hours he, or she, was relaxing at the breeding ground.

Later, the snowmobiles followed our wives on their trip out to the sea for fattening up. We husbands stayed behind, of course, tending our eggs. Except for a few eaten by leopard seals, our wives all made it back to the breeding ground in time to feed our newly-hatched chicks.

After that we started a shuttle service for anyone wanting to make a quick dash out to the sea. The trip only took a few hours by snowmobile; we'd spend a day or two at the sea eating fish, then return to the breeding ground with our bellies full. It made for a quite pleasant winter.

That summer, the snowmobile lobby campaigned to expand our fleet. They had a slogan, "No Penguin Left Behind," and promised a free ride for anyone unable to make the Long March on their own. We put it to a vote. It passed easily, and by next winter we had a half-dozen new Arctic Cats ready for the March.

Our attrition rate plummeted and our ranks swelled with penguins who would otherwise have perished. It was heartwarming to see them--the disabled, the sick and the infirm--all those who, through no fault of their own, wouldn't have survived without the snowmobiles. Our flock prospered, and by the following year six snowmobiles weren't enough to supply all the riders.

We bought a full-sized snowplow with a giant sled, big enough to haul everyone in a few trips. No one had to walk anymore. A niggardly few complained about the high price, but in terms of cost-per-rider it was actually cheaper than the snowmobiles. Besides, how much is a penguin's life worth? You can't put a price on that.

That winter another lobby formed, mostly made up of wives who'd come back from the sea only to find their clumsy husbands had let their eggs freeze. They collected all the frozen eggs and stacked them in a big pyramid. Indoor shelter, they cried, pointing to their egg-monument. For The Children!

By this time we'd already made a dent in our settlement money, but we couldn't very well refuse The Children, could we? So we sold the rest of our holdings and hired a contractor. Next winter we lived in barracks and our infant mortality rate fell by 90 percent.

You'd have hardly recognized our flock--we were huge. Average life expectancy increased by a third and hatch rate doubled. We were inundated with baby penguins. After a few years the first of these baby-boomers were old enough to start making the annual trip out to the breeding ground. It was clear we needed more barracks and another snowplow. But our money was nearly gone.

We put feelers out to the movie producer about a sequel, only to find one was already in the works. They were using animation this time. We hired a PR firm specializing in non-profits and launched a "Save the Penguins" campaign. The whales accused us of copyright infringement. They put pictures on their website of our snowplow and barracks, convinced people we were just another scam. Nothing personal, they said--just protecting their market share.

The barracks began falling apart. Maybe it was shoddy workmanship, or maybe it was the harsh Antarctic conditions. Maybe there were just too many of us all trying to cram inside.

One by one our snowmobiles all conked out. We were running them overtime and falling behind on maintenance--we couldn't afford spare parts. Finally, just as we were starting out on the Long March one year (we still called it that even though we all rode) our last snowplow broke down for good.

We veterans took it in stride, so to speak. We'd made the Long March on foot before; we resigned ourselves to doing it again. But for many it was a death march. It was heartbreaking to see them--the disabled, the sick and the infirm--hobbling along as best they could, dying along the way. There were so many of them. All those who wouldn't have survived without the snowmobiles--we lost them all at once that year.

And the youngsters too: big, strapping youths who should have made it easily. They gave up and plunked down beside the trail to wait for death. No amount of encouragement or cajoling could get them moving again. Not everyone, it seems, is imbued with a strong will to live. I've heard there are pills for that sort of thing, if only we'd had the money.

Only the heartiest of us made it to the breeding ground. At least, we thought, we'd have plenty of room in the barracks. But to our dismay we found they'd completely collapsed. Some thought the whales were behind it, or maybe the movie producer, whose animated sequel had flopped. I reckon it was just nature taking its course. Whatever the reason, we faced winter in the open for the first time in years.

With heavy hearts we started our annual families. I paired up with a foxy young baby-boomer who had a thing for older penguins. She laid our egg and entrusted it to me, then left for the sea with the rest of the wives.

It's no easy trick balancing an egg on your feet for two months while shuffling around inside a big pack of penguins all trying to keep warm. One slip and that's the end of Junior. It only takes a few seconds for the cold, Antarctic ground to freeze him solid. I was afraid I might have lost my touch after all those comfortable years in the barracks, but it was no problem. I guess it's not the kind of thing you learn--or forget. You either have the instinct for it or you don't.

There were plenty of baby-boomers, though, without the instinct. I suspect their fathers didn't have it either, but with the barracks it didn't matter. Inside, even the clumsiest penguins could hatch their eggs. Outside, every fumble was a death sentence. By the time the first chicks hatched the landscape was littered with frozen eggs. What a monument we could have made with them all that year!

My daughter hatched just about the time the wives returned. She had her mother's eyes. Hungry as I was, I still managed to cough up one last morsel for the poor little tyke while we waited in vain for her mother to find us. For whatever reason, the light of my winter never returned. In a few days my daughter joined the countless other chicks who starved to death that year.

As I made my way wearily to the sea I wondered if I couldn't have found a stepmother for her. There were plenty of wives who'd returned to find their own eggs or husbands gone. But perhaps it's just as well. Had I found her a stepmother, my daughter would probably have succumbed to whatever it was that got her biological mother. Like mother, like daughter. She was never meant to be.

You may be thinking what a silly bunch we penguins were, trying to outsmart the elements. Our experiment was a tragic mistake. But we thought we were being compassionate. We only wanted to make life a little easier for the most vulnerable among us. We're not alone in that respect.

As for me, I'll make the March again next year, provided I'm still able. I'll stay away from those young baby- boomers and pick someone from the pre-snowmobile era.

Did I mention I got a letter from the Screen Actor's Guild? They cancelled my membership for lack of dues.

THE END

© Christian Roberts