“You’re right,” he said. “The truth is, we know almost nothing about it. We don’t know how something so large could have survived impact. We don’t know why it hasn’t rusted away. What little electromagnetic and gravitational data we have about the rock seem contradictory, even impossible.”
“I see,” said Britton. She looked into McFarlane’s eyes. “Is it dangerous?”
“There is no reason to think so.” He hesitated. “No reason to think not, either.”
There was a pause.
“What I mean is, will it pose a hazard to my ship or my crew?”
McFarlane chewed his lip, wondering how to answer. “A hazard? It’s heavy as hell. It’ll be tricky to maneuver. But once it’s safely secured in its cradle, I have to believe it’ll be less dangerous than a hold full of inflammable oil.” He looked at her. “And Glinn seems to be a man who never takes chances.”
For a moment, Britton thought about this. Then she nodded. “That was my take on him, too: cautious to a fault.” She pressed the button for the elevator. “That’s the kind of person I like on board. Because the next time I end up on a reef, I’m going down with the ship.”
Rolvaag,
July 3, 2:15 P.M.
AS THE good ship Rolvaag crossed the equator, with the coast of Brazil and the mouth of the Amazon far to the west, a time-honored ritual began on the ship’s bow, as it had on oceangoing vessels for hundreds of years.
Thirty feet below deck and almost nine hundred feet aft, Dr. Patrick Brambell was unpacking his last box of books. For almost every year of his working life he had crossed the line at least once, and he found the concomitant ceremonies—the “Neptune’s tea” made from boiled socks, the gauntlet of fish-wielding deckhands, the vulgar laughter of the shellbacks—distasteful in the extreme.
He had been unpacking and arranging his extensive library ever since the Rolvaag left port. It was a task he enjoyed almost as much as reading the books themselves, and he never allowed himself to hurry. Now he ran a scalpel along the final seam of packing tape, pulled back the cardboard flaps, and looked inside. With loving fingers, he removed the topmost book, Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and caressed its fine half-leather cover before placing it on the last free shelf in his cabin. Orlando Furioso came next, then Huysmans’s À rebours, Coleridge’s lectures on Shakespeare, Dr. Johnson’s Rambler essays, Newman’s Apologia pro Vita Sua. None of the books was about medicine; in fact, of the thousand-odd eclectic books in Brambell’s traveling library, only a dozen or so could be considered professional references—and those he segregated in his medical suite, to remove the vocational stain from his cherished library. For Dr. Brambell was first a reader, and second a doctor.
The box empty at last, Brambell sighed in mingled satisfaction and regret and stepped back to survey the ranks of books standing in neat rows on every surface and shelf. As he did so, there was the clatter of a distant door, followed by the measured cadence of footsteps. Brambell waited motionless, listening, hoping it was not for him but knowing it was. The footsteps stopped, and a brief double rap came from the direction of the waiting room.
Brambell sighed again; a very different sigh from the first. He glanced around the cabin quickly. Then, spying a surgical mask, he picked it up and slipped it over his mouth. He found it very useful in hurrying patients along. He gave the books a last loving glance, then slipped out of the cabin, closing the door behind him.
He walked down the long hallway, past the rooms of empty hospital beds, past the surgical bays and the pathology lab, to the waiting room. There was Eli Glinn, an expandable file beneath one arm.
Glinn’s eyes fastened on the surgical mask. “I didn’t realize you were with someone.”
“I’m not,” Brambell said through the mask. “You’re the first to arrive.”
Glinn glanced at the mask a moment more. Then he nodded. “Very well. May we speak?”
“Certainly.” Brambell led the way to his consultation room. He found Glinn to be one of the most unusual creatures he had ever met: a man with culture who took no delight in it; a man with conversation who never employed it; a man with hooded gray eyes who made it his business to know everyone’s weaknesses, save his own.
Brambell closed the door to his consultation room. “Please sit down, Mr. Glinn.” He waved a hand at Glinn’s folder. “I assume those are the medical histories? They are late. Fortunately, I’ve had no need to call on them yet.”
Glinn slipped into the chair. “I’ve set aside some of the folders that might require your attention. Most are routine. There are a few exceptions.”
“I see.”
“We’ll start with the crew. Victor Howell has testicular cryptorchidism.”
“Odd that he hasn’t had it corrected.”
Glinn looked up. “He probably doesn’t like the idea of a knife down there.”
Brambell nodded.
Glinn leafed through several more folders. There were the usual complaints and conditions to be found in any random sampling of the population: a few diabetics, a chronic slipped disk, a case of Addison’s disease.
“Fairly healthy crew, there,” said Brambell, hoping faintly that the session was over. But no—Glinn was taking out another set of folders.
“And here are the psychological profiles,” Glinn said.
Brambell glanced over at the names. “What about the EES people?”
“We have a slightly different system,” said Glinn. “EES files are available on a need-to-know basis only.”
Brambell didn’t respond to that one. No use arguing with a man like Glinn.
Glinn took two additional folders out of his briefcase and placed them on Brambell’s desk, then casually leaned back in the chair. “There’s really only one person here I’m concerned about.”
“And who might that be?”
“McFarlane.”
Brambell tugged the mask down around his chin. “The dashing meteorite hunter?” he asked in surprise. The man did carry around a faint air of trouble, it was true.
Glinn tapped the top folder. “I will be giving you regular reports on him.”
Brambell raised his eyebrows.
“McFarlane is the one key figure here not of my choosing. He’s had a dubious career, to say the least. That is why I would like you to evaluate this report, and the ones to follow.”
Brambell looked at the file with distaste. “Who’s your mole?” he asked. He expected Glinn to be offended, but he was not.
“I would rather keep that confidential.”
Brambell nodded. He pulled the file toward him, leafing through it. “‘Diffident about expedition and its chances for success,’” he read aloud. “‘Motivations unclear. Distrustful of the scientific community. Extremely uncomfortable with managerial role. Tends to be a loner.’” He dropped the folder. “I don’t see anything unusual.”
Glinn nodded at the second, much larger folder. “Here’s a background file on McFarlane. Among other things, it contains a report here about an unpleasant incident in Greenland some years ago.”
Brambell sighed. He was a most incurious man, and this was, he suspected, a major reason why Glinn had hired him. “I’ll look at it later.”
“Let’s look at it now.”
“Perhaps you could summarize it for me.”
“Very well.”
Brambell sat back, folded his hands, and resigned himself to listening.
“Years ago, McFarlane had a partner named Masangkay. They first teamed up to smuggle the Atacama tektites out of Chile, which made them infamous in that country. After that, they successfully located several other small but important meteorites. The two worked well together. McFarlane had gotten in trouble at his last museum job and went freelance. He had an instinctive knack for finding meteorites, but rock hunting isn’t a full-time job unless you can get backers. Masangkay, unlike McFarlane, was smooth at museum politics and lined up several excellent assignments. They grew very close. McFarlane married Masangka
y’s sister, Malou, making them brothers-in-law. However, over the years, their relationship began to fray. Perhaps McFarlane envied Masangkay’s successful museum career. Or Masangkay envied the fact that McFarlane was by nature the better field scientist. But most of all it had to do with McFarlane’s pet theory.”
“And that was?”
“McFarlane believed that, someday, an interstellar meteorite would be found. One that had traveled across vast interstellar distances from another star system. Everyone told him this was mathematically impossible—all known meteorites came from inside the solar system. But McFarlane was obsessed with the idea. It gave him the faint odor of quackery, and that didn’t sit well with a traditionalist like Masangkay.
“In any case, about three years ago there was a major meteorite fall near Tornarssuk, Greenland. It was tracked by satellites and seismic sensors, which allowed for good triangulation of its impact site. Its trajectory was even captured on an amateur videotape. The New York Museum of Natural History, working with the Danish government, hired Masangkay to find the meteorite. Masangkay brought in McFarlane.
“They found the Tornarssuk, but it took a lot more time and cost a lot more money than they anticipated. Large debts were incurred. The New York Museum balked. To make matters worse, there was friction between Masangkay and McFarlane. McFarlane extrapolated the orbit of the Tornarssuk from the satellite data, and became convinced that the meteorite was following a hyperbolic orbit, which meant it must have come in from far beyond the solar system. He thought it was the interstellar meteorite he had been looking for all his life. Masangkay was worried sick over the funding, and this was the last thing he wanted to hear. They waited, guarding the site, for days, but no money came. At last, Masangkay went off to resupply and meet with Danish officials. He left McFarlane with the stone—and, unfortunately, a communications dish.
“As best I understand it, McFarlane had a kind of psychological break. He was there, alone, for a week. He became convinced that the New York Museum would fail to provide the extra funding, and that in the end the meteorite would be spirited off by somebody, broken up, and sold on the black market, never to be seen or studied again. So he used the satellite dish to contact a rich Japanese collector who he knew could buy it whole and keep it. In short, he betrayed his partner. When Masangkay returned with the supplies—and, as it happened, the extra funding—the Japanese were already there. They wasted no time at all. They took it away. Masangkay felt betrayed, and the scientific world was furious at McFarlane. They’ve never forgiven him.”
Brambell nodded sleepily. It was an interesting story. Might make for a good, if somewhat sensational, novel. Jack London could have done it justice. Or better yet, Conrad …
“I worry about McFarlane,” Glinn said, intruding on his thoughts. “We can’t have anything like that happening here. It would ruin everything. If he was willing to betray his own brother-in-law, he would betray Lloyd and EES without a second thought.”
“Why should he?” Brambell yawned. “Lloyd has deep pockets, and he seems perfectly happy to write checks.”
“McFarlane is mercenary, of course, but this goes beyond money. The meteorite we’re after has some very peculiar properties. If McFarlane grows obsessed with it as he did with the Tornarssuk … ” Glinn hesitated. “For example, if we ever have to use the dead man’s switch, it would be in a time of extreme crisis. Every second would count. I don’t want anybody trying to prevent it.”
“And my role in this?”
“You have a background in psychiatry. I want you to review these periodic reports. If you see any cause for concern—in particular, any incipient signs of a break like his last one—please let me know.”
Brambell flipped through the two files again, the old one and the new. The background file was strange. He wondered where Glinn had gotten the information—very little, if any, was standard psychiatric or medical stuff. Many of the reports had no reporting doctors’ names or affiliations—indeed, some had no names at all. Whatever the source, it had a very expensive whiff about it.
He finally looked up at Glinn and slapped the folder shut. “I’ll look this over, and I’ll keep an eye on him. I’m not sure my take on what happened is the same as yours.”
Glinn rose to leave, his gray eyes as impenetrable as slate. Brambell found it unaccountably irritating.
“And the Greenland meteorite?” Brambell asked. “Was it from interstellar space?”
“Of course not. It turned out to be an ordinary rock from the asteroid belt. McFarlane was wrong.”
“And the wife?” Brambell asked after a moment.
“What wife?”
“McFarlane’s wife. Malou Masangkay.”
“She left him. Went back to the Philippines and remarried.”
In a moment, Glinn was gone, his carefully placed footfalls fading down the corridor. For a moment, the doctor listened to the dying cadence, thinking. Then a line of Conrad’s came to mind. He spoke it aloud: “No man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge.”
With a sigh of returning contentment, he put aside the files and went back into his private suite. The torpid equatorial climate, as well as something about Glinn himself, made the doctor think of Maugham—the short stories, to be exact. He ran his fingers over the nubbed spines—each rekindling a universe of memory and emotion as it passed by—found what he was looking for, settled into a large wing chair, and opened the cover with a shiver of delight.
Rolvaag,
July 11, 7:55 A.M.
MCFARLANE ADVANCED onto the parquet deck and looked around curiously. It was his first time on the bridge, and this was without question the most dramatic space on the Rolvaag. The bridge was as wide as the ship itself. Three sides of the room were dominated by large square windows, slanting outward from bottom to top, each equipped with its own electric wiper. On either end, doors led out to the bridge wings. Other doors to the rear were labeled CHART ROOM and RADIO ROOM in brass letters. Beneath the forward windows, a bank of equipment stretched the entire length of the bridge: consoles, rows of telephones, links to control stations throughout the ship. Beyond the windows, a predawn squall lay across stormy deserts of ocean. The only light came from the instrument panels and screens. A smaller row of windows gave a view aft, between the stacks and past the stern of the ship to the white double lines of the wake, vanishing toward the horizon.
In the center of the room stood a command-and-control station. Here, McFarlane saw the captain, a dim figure in the near-darkness. She was speaking into a telephone, occasionally leaning over to murmur to the helmsman beside her, the hollows of his eyes illuminated a cold green by his radar screen.
As McFarlane joined the silent vigil, the squall began to break up and a gray dawn crept over the horizon. A single deckhand moved antlike across the distant forecastle, bound on obscure business. Above the creamy bow-wake, a few persistent seabirds wheeled and screamed. It was a shocking contrast to the torrid tropics, which they had left behind less than a week before.
After the Rolvaag had crossed the equator, in sultry heat and heavy rains, a lassitude had fallen over the ship. McFarlane had felt it, too: yawning over games of shuffleboard; lolling in his suite, staring at the butternut walls. But as they continued south, the air had grown crisper, the ocean swells longer and heavier, and the pearlescent sky of the tropics had given way to brilliant azure, flecked with clouds. As the air freshened, he sensed that the general malaise was being replaced by a mounting excitement.
The door to the bridge opened once again, and two figures entered: a third officer, taking the morning eight-to-twelve, and Eli Glinn. He came silently up to McFarlane’s side.
“What’s this all about?” McFarlane asked under his breath.
Before Glinn could answer, there was a soft click from behind. McFarlane glanced back to see Victor Howell step out of the radio room and look on as the watch was relieved.
The third officer
came over and murmured something in the captain’s ear. In turn, she glanced at Glinn. “Keep an eye off the starboard bow,” she said, nodding out toward the horizon, which lay like a knife edge against the sky.
As the sky lightened, the swells and hollows of the heaving sea became more clearly defined. A spear of dawn light probed through the heavy canopy of clouds off the ship’s starboard bow. Stepping away from the helmsman, the captain strolled to the forward wall of windows, hands clasped behind her back. As she did so, another ray of light clipped the tops of the clouds. And then, abruptly, the entire western horizon lit up like an eruption of fire. McFarlane squinted, trying to understand what it was he was staring at. Then he made it out: a row of great snowcapped peaks, wreathed in glaciers, ablaze in the dawn.
The captain turned and faced the group. “Land ho,” she said dryly. “The mountains of Tierra del Fuego. Within a few hours, we’ll pass through the Strait of Le Maire and into the Pacific Ocean.” She passed a pair of binoculars to McFarlane.
McFarlane stared at the range of mountains through the binoculars: distant and forbidding, like the ramparts of a lost continent, the peaks shedding long veils of snow.
Glinn straightened his shoulders, turned away from the sight, and glanced at Victor Howell. The chief mate strolled over to a technician at the far end of the bridge, who quickly stood up and disappeared out the door onto the starboard bridge wing. Howell returned to the command station. “Give yourself fifteen for coffee,” he said to the third officer. “I’ll take the con.”
The junior officer looked from Howell to the captain, surprised by this break from procedure. “Do you want me to enter it in the log, ma’am?” he asked.
The Ice Limit Page 11
