“We’ll give that a moment to get tacky,” she explained. “We don’t want even the slightest speck of meteorite dust escaping into the air.” She fumbled in her parka, extracted the cigar tube, glanced at the expressions on Glinn’s and McFarlane’s faces, sighed, and began cracking peanuts instead.
McFarlane shook his head. “Peanuts, candy, cigars. What else do you do that your mother would disapprove of?”
She looked at him. “Hot monkey sex, rock and roll, extreme skiing, and high-stakes blackjack.”
McFarlane laughed. Then he asked, “Are you nervous?”
“Not so much nervous as incredibly excited. You?”
McFarlane thought about this for a moment. It was almost as if he was allowing himself to become excited; to grow used to the idea that this was, after all, the very thing he had hunted for all those years.
“Yeah,” he said. “Excited.”
Glinn pulled out his gold pocket watch, flicked open its cover, and glanced at its face. “It’s time.”
Amira returned to the drill and adjusted a dial. A low rumble began to fill the close air of the shack. She checked the position of the bit, then took a step back, making an adjustment with the remote. The rumble rose to a whine. She maneuvered a small hat switch on the remote, and the whirling bit obediently descended, then retracted.
“Five by five,” she said, glancing at Glinn.
Glinn reached into the open case, pulled out three respirators, and tossed two of them to McFarlane and Amira. “We’ll step outside now and work from the remote.”
McFarlane snugged the respirator onto his head, seating the cold rubber around his jaws, and stepped outside. Without a hood, the wind cut cruelly around his ears and the nape of his neck. From inside, the angry, hornetlike whine of the idling drill was still clearly audible.
“Farther,” Glinn said. “Minimum distance one hundred feet.”
They stepped back from the building. Snow was tumbling into the air, turning the site into a filmy sea of white.
“If this turns out to be a spaceship,” Amira said, her voice muffled, “somebody inside’s gonna be mighty pissed when Mr. Diamond Head pokes through.”
The shack was barely visible through the snow, the open door a dim rectangle of white in the swirling gray. “All ready.”
“Good,” Glinn replied. “Cut through the sealant. We’ll pause at one millimeter below the surface of the meteorite to scan for outgassing.”
Amira nodded and aimed the remote, fingering the hat switch. The whine grew louder for a moment, then suddenly became muffled. A few seconds went by.
“Funny, I’m not making any progress,” said Amira.
“Raise the drill.”
Amira pulled back on the hat, and the whine grew louder again, settling down quickly to a steady pitch. “Seems fine.”
“RPM?”
“Twelve thousand.”
“Raise it to sixteen and lower again.”
The whine increased in pitch. As McFarlane listened, it grew muffled once again. There was a sharp grinding noise, then nothing.
Amira glanced at a small LED readout on the remote, its red numbers stark against the black casing. “It stopped,” she said.
“Any idea why?”
“Seems to be running hot, maybe there’s something wrong with the motor. But the internals all checked out.”
“Retract and let it cool. Then double the torque, and lower again.”
They waited while Amira fiddled with the remote. McFarlane kept his eyes on the open door of the shack. After a few moments, Amira grunted to herself and nosed the hat switch forward. The whine returned, throatier now. Suddenly, the note grew lower as the drill labored.
“Heating up again,” Amira said. “Damn this thing.” Her jaw set, and she gave the hat switch a jab.
The pitch changed abruptly. There was a sharp ripping sound, and a dull flicker of orange light burst from the doorway. It was followed by a loud crackle, then another, much quieter. And then all was silent.
“What happened?” Glinn asked sharply.
Amira peered out, frowning through her respirator. “I don’t know.”
She took an impulsive step toward the shack, but Glinn put out a hand to stop her. “No. Rachel, determine what happened first.”
With a heavy sigh, Amira turned back to the remote. “There’s a lot of gibberish I’ve never seen before,” she said, scrolling back through the LED readout. “Wait, here’s something. It says ‘Failure Code 47.’” She looked up and snorted. “That’s just great. And the manual’s probably back in Montana.”
A small booklet appeared, as if by sleight of hand, in Glinn’s right glove. He turned the pages. Then he stopped short. “Failure Code 47, you said?”
“Yup.”
“Impossible.”
There was a pause. “Eli, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before,” Amira replied.
Glinn looked up from the manual, alien in his parka and goonlike respirator. “The drill’s burned out.”
“Burned out? With the kind of horsepower that thing’s sporting? I don’t believe it.”
Glinn slipped the manual back into the folds of his parka. “Believe it.”
They looked at each other as the snowflakes curled around them.
“But that could only happen if the meteorite was harder than diamond,” Amira said.
In answer, Glinn simply moved toward the hut.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt rubber. The drill was half obscured by smoke, the LED lights along its flank dark, its underside scorched. “It’s not responding at all,” Amira said, manipulating its controls by hand.
“Probably tripped the circuit breakers,” said Glinn. “Retract the bit manually.”
McFarlane watched as, inch by inch, the huge bit rose out of the acrid smoke. When the tip at last came into view, he saw that its serrated end was now an ugly, circular scar of metal, fused and burnt.
“Jesus,” said Amira. “That was a five-thousand-dollar diamond-carborundum bit.”
McFarlane looked over at Glinn, half hidden by the curls of smoke. The man’s eyes were not on the drill bit; instead, they seemed to be contemplating something in the distance. As McFarlane watched, he unclipped his respirator and pulled it free.
The wind rose suddenly, slamming the door shut, rattling its hinges and worrying the knob.
“What now?” Amira asked.
“We take the bit back to the Rolvaag for a thorough examination,” Glinn said.
Amira turned to the drill, but Glinn’s expression had lost none of its distance. “And it’s time we took something else back with us as well,” he added quietly.
Isla Desolación,
3:05 P.M.
OUTSIDE THE shack, McFarlane pulled off the respirator and snugged the hood of his parka tightly around his face. Wind gusted through the staging area, sending skeins of snow whirling across the frozen ground. By now, Lloyd must be well on his way back to New York. Already, what little light the heavy clouds permitted was fading from the sky. It would be dark in half an hour.
There was a crunch of snow, and Glinn and Amira appeared, returning from the stores hut. Amira held a fluorescent storm lantern in each hand, and Glinn was pulling a long, low aluminum sled behind him.
“What’s that?” McFarlane asked, pointing to a large blue trunk of molded plastic that lay on the sled.
“Evidence locker,” Glinn said. “For the remains.”
McFarlane felt a mounting queasiness in his gut. “Is this absolutely necessary?”
“I know it can’t be easy for you,” Glinn replied. “But it’s an unknown. And at EES, we dislike unknowns.”
As they approached the pile of rocks that marked Masangkay’s grave, the snow flurries began to draw away. The Jaws of Hanuxa came into view, dark against an even darker sky. Beyond, McFarlane caught the merest patch of storm-flecked bay. On the distant horizon, the sharp peaks of Isla Wollaston clawed their way skyw
ard. It was incredible how quickly the weather changed down here.
Already the wind had stuffed snow and ice into the crevices of the makeshift cairn, mortaring the grave in white. Without ceremony, Glinn pulled out the cross, laid it down, and began prying frozen rocks from the pile and rolling them aside. He glanced back at McFarlane. “It’s fine if you’d rather hang back a bit.”
McFarlane swallowed. There were very few things he could imagine less pleasant than this particular job. But if it had to be done, he wanted to be part of it. “No,” he said. “I’ll help.”
It was much easier to pull the grave apart than it had been to assemble it. Soon, Masangkay’s remains began to come into view. Glinn slowed his pace, working more gingerly. McFarlane stared at the broken bones; the split skull and broken teeth; the ropy pieces of gristle, the partly mummified flesh. It was hard to believe that this had once been his partner and friend. He felt his gorge rise, his breath come fast.
Darkness was falling quickly. Putting aside the last of the rocks, Glinn lit the lanterns and placed one on either side of the grave. With a pair of forceps he began placing the bones into the plastic-lined compartments of the locker. A few of the bones still adhered to each other, held together by strips of cartilage, skin, and desiccated gristle, but most looked as if they had been violently torn asunder.
“I’m no forensic pathologist,” said Amira, “but this guy looks like he had a close encounter with a Peterbilt.”
Glinn said nothing, forceps moving again and again from the ground to the locker, his face hidden by the folds of his hood. Then he stopped.
“What is it?” Amira asked.
Reaching out with the forceps, Glinn carefully pried something out of the frozen dirt. “This boot isn’t just rotten,” he said. “It’s been burned. And some of these bones appear to have been burned, too.”
“Do you suppose he was murdered for his equipment?” Amira asked. “And they burned the body to conceal the crime? It would be a hell of a lot easier than digging a grave in this soil.”
“That would make Puppup a murderer,” said McFarlane, feeling the hardness in his own voice.
Glinn held up a distal phalanx, examining it in the light like a small jewel. “Very unlikely,” he said. “However, that’s a question for the good doctor to answer.”
“About time he had something to do,” Amira said. “Instead of reading his books and wandering around the ship like a ghoul.”
Glinn placed the bone into the evidence locker. Then he turned back to the gravesite and picked up something else with his forceps.
“This was underneath the boot,” he said. He held the object up to the light, brushed off the clinging ice and dirt, and held it up again.
“A belt buckle,” said Amira.
“What?” McFarlane asked. He pushed his way forward, staring.
“It’s some kind of purple gemstone, placed in a silver setting,” Amira said. “But look, it’s been melted.”
McFarlane sank back.
Amira looked at him. “Are you all right?” McFarlane merely passed a gloved hand across his eyes and shook his head. To see that here, of all places … Years ago, after they had scored big with the Atacama tektites, he had had a pair of belt buckles made, each with a sectioned tektite, to celebrate their coup. He’d lost his long ago. But despite everything, Nestor had still been wearing his at his death. It surprised McFarlane how very much that meant to him.
Without speaking, they gathered up the prospector’s meager effects. Then Glinn fastened the locker, Amira gathered up the lights, and the two began trudging back. McFarlane remained a moment longer, staring at the cold jumble of rocks. Then he turned to follow.
Punta Arenas,
July 17, 8:00 A.M.
COMANDANTE VALLENAR stood over the tiny metal sink in his cabin, smoking the bitter end of a puro and lathering his face with sandalwood-scented shaving cream. He detested the fragrant shaving cream, just like he detested the razor that lay on the basin: a two-bladed disposable of bright yellow plastic. Typical American throwaway trash. Who else would build such a wasteful thing, two blades when just a single blade would do? But naval stores were capricious, especially for ships that spent most of their time in the far south. He stared at the little disposable in disgust, one of a pack of ten that the quartermaster had issued him that morning. It was either that or a straight razor. And on board ship, straight razors could be dangerous.
He rinsed the blade, then raised it to his left cheekbone. He always started with the left side of his face: he had never been comfortable shaving with his left hand, and this side was easier somehow.
At least the shaving cream hid the smell of the ship. Almirante Ramirez was the oldest destroyer in the fleet, purchased from the U.K. in the fifties. Decades of poor sanitation, vegetable peelings rotting in bilgewater, chemical solvents, faulty sewage disposal, and spilled diesel fuel had suffused the vessel with a stench that nothing short of sinking would eradicate.
The sudden blat of an airhorn chased away the noise of crying birds and distant traffic. He glanced through the rusted porthole toward the piers and the city beyond. It was a brilliant day, with crystal skies and a brisk cold wind from the west.
The comandante returned to his shaving. He never liked anchoring in Punta Arenas; it was a poor place for a ship, especially in a westerly wind. He was surrounded, as usual, by fishing boats taking advantage of the destroyer’s lee. It was typical South American anarchy; no discipline, no sense of the dignity due a military vessel.
There was a rap on the door. “Comandante,” came the voice of Timmer, the signal officer.
“Enter,” the comandante said without turning. In the mirror, he could see the door open and Timmer enter with another man in tow: a civilian, well-fed, prosperous, satisfied with himself.
Vallenar ran the blade a few times along his chin. Then he rinsed the blade in the metal basin and turned. “Thank you, Mr. Timmer,” he said with a smile. “You may go. If you would be so kind as to post a man outside.”
After Timmer left, Vallenar took a moment to examine the man before him. He stood before the desk, a slight smile on his face, no trace of apprehension. And why should he be afraid? Vallenar thought, without malice. Vallenar was a commander in name only. He had the oldest warship in the fleet, with the worst posting. So who could blame the man who stood here before him now for sticking out his chest ever so slightly, for feeling like a big man who could stare down the powerless comandante of a rusting vessel?
Vallenar took one last, deep drag on the puro, then flicked it out the open porthole. He laid down the razor and pulled a cigar box from a desk drawer with his good hand, offering the box to the stranger. The man glanced at the cigars with disdain and shook his head. Vallenar took one for himself.
“I apologize for the cigars,” the comandante said, replacing the box. “They are of very poor quality. Here in the navy, you must take what you are given.”
The man smiled condescendingly, staring at his withered right arm. Vallenar eyed the heavy sheen of pomade in the man’s hair and the clear polish on his fingernails. “Sit down, my friend,” he said, placing the cigar in his mouth. “Forgive me if I continue shaving while we talk.”
The man took a seat in front of the desk, daintily propping one leg over the other.
“I understand you are a dealer in used electronic equipment—watches, computers, photocopiers, that sort of thing.” Vallenar paused while drawing the razor across his upper lip. “Yes?”
“New and used equipment,” the man said.
“I stand corrected,” Vallenar said. “About four or five months ago—it would have been in March, I believe—you purchased a certain piece of equipment, a tomographic sounder. It is a tool used by prospectors, a set of long metal rods with a keyboard at its center. Did you not?”
“Mi Comandante, I have a large business. I cannot remember every piece of junk that crosses my door.”
Vallenar turned. “I did not say it was
junk. You said you sell new and used equipment, did you not?”
The merchant shrugged, raised his hands, and smiled. It was a smile that the comandante had seen countless times before from petty bureaucrats, officials, businessmen. It was a smile that said, I won’t know anything, and I won’t help you, until I get la mordida, the bribe. It was the same smile he had seen on the faces of the customs officials in Puerto Williams, a week before. And yet today, instead of rage, he felt only a great pity for this man. A man like this wasn’t born polluted. He had been corrupted by degrees. It was a symptom of a greater sickness; a sickness that manifested itself all around him.
Sighing deeply, Vallenar came around the desk and perched on the edge closest to the merchant. He smiled at the man, feeling the shaving cream drying on his skin. The merchant nodded his head with a conspiratorial wink. As he did so, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture, laying the other manicured palm on the table.
As quick as a striking snake, the comandante’s hand shot forward. With a sharp, digging movement, he sank the twin blades of the razor into the moon end of the merchant’s middle fingernail. The man drew in his breath sharply. Terrified eyes stared up at the comandante, who met his gaze with perfect impassivity. Then the comandante gave a brutal tug and the man shrieked as the fingernail was torn away.
Vallenar shook the razor, flicking the bloody nail out the porthole. Then he turned to the mirror and resumed shaving. For a moment, the only sounds in the small cabin were the scrape of the blades against skin and the loud moaning of the merchant. Vallenar noticed, with faint interest, that the razor was leaving an unshaven stripe on his face; a piece of matter must have remained stuck between the blades.
He rinsed the blade again and finished shaving. Then, patting and drying his face, he turned to the merchant. The man had risen to his feet and was standing before the desk, swaying and moaning, and clutching his dripping finger.
The Ice Limit Page 19
