Terminal Freeze

10

As they stepped back into the overpowering warmth of the base’s entrance plaza, Conti nodded for the soundman and Toussaint to accompany them. Then he turned to Marshall. “We might as well shoot this from your lab.”

“It’s this way.” Marshall led the small group down the central staircase, along the wide corridor, then right at an intersection, stopping at a half-open door. “Here we are.”

Conti leaned in, took a quick look around. “This is your lab?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It’s too neat. Where’s all the equipment? The samples? The test tubes?”

“My samples are kept in a refrigerated locker down the hall. We’ve set up separate rooms for the scientific equipment, though we left most of the heavy stuff back in Woburn. This expedition is primarily about observation and sample collection-the analysis will come later.”

“And the test tubes?”

Marshall smiled thinly. “Paleoecologists don’t have much use for test tubes.”

Conti thought for a moment. “I noticed that we passed a more appropriate lab a few doors back.”

“Appropriate?” Marshall echoed. But Conti was already walking back down the hall, the soundman and photographer in tow. After a moment, Marshall shrugged and followed.

“Here.” Conti had stopped outside a room whose every horizontal surface was covered with journals, printouts, plastic sample containers, and instrumentation.

“But this is Wright’s lab,” Marshall protested. “We can’t use it.”

Conti had raised the lens dangling around his neck to one eye and was examining Marshall through it. “Why not?”

Marshall hesitated. He realized that, in fact, there was no good reason why they couldn’t use Faraday’s lab. “Why don’t you interview him, then?”

“Because, Dr. Marshall-how can I put this delicately?-the camera would not be kind to Dr. Faraday. You, however, have a rugged academic appeal. Now, may we proceed?”

Marshall shrugged again. He found it difficult talking to a man who was regarding him through a fist-sized lens.

Conti stepped inside and-lens still in place-motioned Toussaint where he wanted the camera placed. The photographer walked to the back of the lab, followed by the soundman. “Dr. Marshall,” Conti went on, “we’re going to film you walking in and having a seat behind the desk. Ready?”

“I suppose so.”

Conti dropped the lens. “Action.”

As the camera rolled, Marshall walked into the lab, stopping when he saw the tottering pile of papers placed on Faraday’s lab chair.

“Cut.” Conti swept the papers onto the floor, shooed Marshall back out into the hall. “Let’s try that again.”

Once again, Marshall walked through the door and into the office.

“Cut!” Conti barked. He frowned at Marshall. “Don’t just come strolling in. Let’s see some excitement in your step. You’ve just made a big discovery.”

“What discovery would that be?”

“The saber-toothed tiger, of course. Let the audience see your enthusiasm. Let them live the thrill of this marvel through you.”

“I don’t understand. I thought this whole circus was about thawing the carcass, live.”

Conti rolled his eyes. “You can’t take up seventy-four and a half minutes of prime time with that. Please get with the program, Dr. Marshall. We need to show the whole backstory, the buildup. Get the audience to buy in 100 percent. We won’t actually open the vault until the final segment.”

Marshall nodded slowly. He tried hard to do what Conti asked: get with the program. He swallowed his irritation at the artificiality of it all; he tried to forget his indignation at the sacrifice of science on the altar of theatricality. He reminded himself Conti was an award-winning producer; that his From Fatal Seas was a landmark among modern documentaries; that having an audience of millions could only be beneficial to future research.

He stepped back out into the hall.

“Action!” Conti called out. Marshall stepped briskly in, seated himself behind the desk, and pretended to busy himself at Faraday’s laptop.

“Cut it and print it,” Conti said. “Much better.” He stepped around the desk. “Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, off camera. You will then answer them, on camera. Remember that in the final print, it’s going to be Ashleigh asking the questions, not me.” He glanced down at a clipboard. “Why don’t you start by explaining why you’re here in the first place?”

“Sure. We’re here for three reasons, really. First, we wanted to see the impact of global warming on subarctic environments, specifically glaciers. Second, we wanted an undisturbed site to conduct our analyses. Third, we had to do it relatively cheap. Fear Base fit all three.”

“But why this mountain, in particular?”

“Because of its glacier. Examining glacial retreat is an excellent way to measure global warming. Let me explain. The upper part of a glacier, the part that gets the snowfall, is known as the accumulation zone. The lower part, the glacier’s foot, is the ablation zone. This is where ice is lost through melting. A healthy glacier has a large accumulation zone. And this glacier-the Fear-is not healthy. Its accumulation zone is small. Dr. Sully’s been recording the speed of its retreat. It took ten thousand years to form the glacier, bring it this far. But the alarming thing is that it has retreated a hundred feet in just the last twelve months…”

He stopped. Toussaint had lowered the camera, and Conti was perusing his clipboard again. Time is money, Marshall reminded himself.

Conti glanced up. “What’s the scientific name for the cat again, Dr. Marshall?”

“Smilodon.”

“And what was the Smilodon’s diet?”

“That’s one of the things we hope to discover with more accuracy. The contents of the stomach should-”

“Thank you, Doctor, I get your drift. Let’s try keeping it to general terms. Was this cat a meat eater?”

“All cats are meat eaters.”

“Did it eat humans?”

“I suppose so. When it could catch them.”

A look of impatience crossed Conti’s face. “Would you state that, please, for the camera?”

Marshall glanced at the camera and-feeling a little foolish-said, “Smilodons ate human beings.”

“Excellent. Now, how did you feel, Dr. Marshall, when you discovered the cat?”

Marshall frowned. “How did I feel? Shocked. Surprised.”

Conti shook his head. “You can’t say that.”

“Why not? I was very surprised.”

“Do you expect our sponsors to pay $500,000 a minute to hear you were ‘surprised’?” Conti thought for a moment. Then he turned the clipboard over, pulled an erasable marker from his shirt pocket, and scrawled something on the back. “Let’s try something. I’d like to hear how you sound reading this. Just for a sound test.” And he held the clipboard up.

Marshall peered at the handwriting. “It was like peering into the heart of darkness.”

“Again, please? Slowly, and with more drama. Look at the camera, not at the clipboard.”

Marshall repeated the sentence. Conti nodded with satisfaction, then turned to the assistant DP. “Get that?”

Toussaint nodded. Conti turned to the soundman in turn. “Got it?”

“Got it, chief.”

“Wait a minute,” Marshall said. “I didn’t say that. Those are your words.”

Conti spread his hands. “They’re good words.”

Marshall lost his patience. “You’re not interested in scientific accuracy here. You’re not interested in accuracy, period. You just want a good show.”

“That’s what I’m being paid for, Doctor. Now, let’s talk about you.” Conti glanced down at his clipboard again. “I had my researchers do a little digging into the members of this expedition. Your story is particularly interesting, Dr. Marshall. You were a decorated officer. You won the Silver Star. Yet you left the army with a dishonorable discharge. Is this true?”

“If it is, you could hardly expect me to want to talk about it, could you?”

“Let’s try again.” Conti pressed his hands together. “ Northern Massachusetts University is-how shall I put it?-not known for the quality of its academics. How does somebody like you end up a scientist-especially at a place like that?”

Marshall didn’t answer.

“You qualified as a sharpshooter. So why is it you’re the only member of your expedition who refuses to carry a rifle for protection?”

Abruptly, Marshall stood up. “You know what? Go find yourself another poster boy. I don’t think I’m going to answer any more questions.”

When Conti opened his mouth to speak, Marshall stepped closer. “And if you try to ask any, I’ll knock your annoying little ass across this lab table.”

There was a strained silence. Conti looked at him-the same appraising look he’d given him just before Wolff produced the contract. After a long moment, he spoke. “Let me explain something to you, Dr. Marshall. I am a powerful man-and not just in New York and Hollywood. If you decide to make an enemy of me, you’ll be making a rather large mistake.” He wiped the scrawl off the clipboard with the palm of his hand, then turned to Toussaint. “See if you can track down Dr. Sully. Something tells me that we’ll find him more cooperative.”