The Ice Limit

"What will happen to the ring?" Glinn asked.

"It'll stay with me into the grave."

"No children?" Glinn already knew that Puppup was the last of the Yaghan, but he wanted to gauge the answer.

Puppup shook his head.

Glinn nodded, still holding the hand. "Are there no others left at all?"

"A few mestizos, but I'm the last one to speak the lingo."

"That must make you sad."

"There's an ancient Yaghan legend, and the older I get the more I think it was meant for me."

"What is that?"

"When the time comes for the last Yaghan to die, Hanuxa himself will draw him down into the earth. From his bones, a new race will grow."

Glinn let go of Puppup's hand. "And how would Hanuxa take the last Yaghan?"

Puppup shook his head. "It's a bloody superstition, isn't it then? I don't remember the details."

Glinn didn't push. This was the old Puppup talking again. He realized there was no way to know if he had been successful in reaching him. "John, I need your help with Comandante Emiliano Vallenar. His presence here is a threat to our mission. What can you tell me about him?"

Puppup shook another cigarette out of the pack. "Comandante Emiliano came down here twenty-five years ago. After the Pinochet coup."

"Why?"

"His father fell out of a helicopter while being questioned. An Allende man. So was the son. He was posted down here to keep him at arm's length, like."

Glinn nodded. That explained a great deal. Not only his disgrace in the Chilean navy, but his hatred of the Americans, possibly even his self-loathing as a Chilean. "Why is he still commanding a destroyer?"

"He knows certain things about certain people, don't he? He's a good officer. And Comandante Emiliano is very stubborn. And very careful."

"I see," said Glinn, noting the shrewdness of Puppup's insights. "Is there anything else about him that I should know? Is he married?"

Puppup licked the end of a new cigarette and placed it between his lips. "The comandante is a double murderer."

Glinn stifled his surprise by lighting the cigarette.

"He brought his wife to Puerto Williams. It's a bad place for a woman. There's nothing to do, no dances, no fiestas. During the Falklands War, the comandante was put on a long tour of duty in the Estrecho de Magallanes, keeping the Argentinian fleet pinned down for the British. When he came back, he discovered his wife had taken a lover." Puppup took a deep drag. "The comandante was clever. He waited until he could walk in on them, doing it, like. He cut her throat. As I heard it, he did something even worse to the man. He bled to death on the way to the hospital in Punta Arenas."

"Why wasn't he put in prison?"

"Down here, you don't just tell your rival to sod off. Chileans have old notions of honor, don't they?" Puppup spoke very clearly, very matter-of-factly. "If he had killed them outside the bedroom, it would have been different. But..." He shrugged. "Everyone understood why a man who saw his wife like that would do what he did. And that's another reason why the comandante kept his command so long."

"Why is that?"

"He's a man who might do anything."

Glinn paused a moment, looking out across the channel at the destroyer. It hung there, motionless, dark. "There's something else I must ask you," he said, his eyes still on the warship. "That merchant in Punta Arenas, the one you sold the prospector's equipment to. Would he remember you? Would he be able to identify you, if asked?"

Puppup seemed to think for a minute. "Can't say," he answered at last. "It was a big shop. Then again, there aren't many Yaghan Indians in Punta Arenas. And we had quite a bargaining session."

"I see," said Glinn. "Thank you, John. You've been very helpful."

"Speak nothing of it, guv'nor," said Puppup. He looked sidelong at Glinn, eyes sparkling with shrewdness and amusement.

Glinn thought quickly. Sometimes it was best to confess a lie immediately. If done properly, it could breed a perverse kind of trust.

"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you," he said. "I know a lot about Captain Fitzroy. But he isn't actually my ancestor."

Puppup cackled unpleasantly. "Of course not. No more than Fuegia Basket was mine."

A gust of bitter Wind tore at Glinn's collar. He glanced over at Puppup. "How did you get the ring then?"

"With us Yaghans, so many died that the last one left inherited the lot. That's how I got the bonnet and the ring, and just about everything else." Puppup continued gazing at Glinn in a bemused way.

"What happened to it all?"

"Sold most of it. Drank the proceeds."

Glinn, startled again at the directness of the response, realized he hadn't even begun to understand the Yaghan. "When this is over," the old man added, "you'll have to take me with you, wherever you're going. I can't go back home again."

"Why not?" But even as he asked the question, Glinn realized he already knew the answer.

Rolvaag,

11:20 P.M.

MCFARLANE WALKED down the blue-carpeted corridor of the lower bridge deck. He was bone tired, yet he could not sleep. Too much had happened for one day: the long string of bizarre discoveries, the deaths of Rochefort and Evans, the reappearance of the destroyer. Having given up on sleep, he found himself roaming the decks of the Rolvaag like a restless apparition.

Now he paused before a stateroom door. His feet, unbidden, had brought him to Amira's cabin. He realized, with surprise, that he wanted her company. Her cynical laugh might be just the bracing tonic he needed. Time spent with her would be mercifully free of chitchat or exhaustive explanations. He wondered if she'd be interested in a cup of coffee in the wardroom, or a game of pool.

He knocked on the door. "Rachel?"

There was no response. She couldn't be sleeping — Amira claimed she had never gone to bed before 3 A.M. in the last ten years.

He knocked again. The unlatched door eased open under the pressure of his knuckles.

"Rachel? It's Sam." He stepped inside, curious despite himself; he had never been inside Amira's cabin. Instead of the disarray, the confused riot of sheets and cigar ash and clothes he expected, the place looked fastidiously clean. The sofa and chairs were neatly arranged, the shelves of scientific manuals carefully ordered. For a moment he wondered if she was even living there, until he saw a litter of broken peanut shells, lying in a semicircle underneath the computer table.

He smiled fondly as he stepped toward the table. His eyes strayed to the screen and were arrested by the sight of his own last name.

A two-page document stood in the nearby printer. Snatching the top page, he began to read.

EES CONFIDENTIAL

From: R. Amira

To: E. Glinn

Subject: S. McFarlane

Since the last report, the subject has become increasingly engrossed with the meteorite and its incomprehensibility. He is still ambivelent about the project, and about Lloyd himself, he has also been drawn in, almost against his will, by the problems the meteorite poses. There is little talk between us of anything else — at least, until what happened at the site this morning. I am not sure he is being completely forthright with me, but I'm not comfortable pressing the issue any farther.

After the meteorite was first uncovered, I initiated a conversation about his earlier theory about the existence of interstellar meteorites. While reluctant at first, he soon became enthusiastic, explaining how the theory fits the Desolación meteorite. However, he felt a need for secrecy and asked me not to share his suspicions with anyone. As you must know from this morning's discussion, his belief in its interstellar nature is, if anything, growing.

There was a closing of a door, the sharp intake of breath. McFarlane turned. Amira stood with her back to the cabin door. She was still dressed for dinner in a knee-length black dress, but she had thrown her parka over her shoulders for the trip to the commissary. She was in the act of pulling a newly purchased bag of peanuts from one of the pockets. She glanced at him, then at the paper in his hand, and became still.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Slowly, as if by its own accord, the bag of peanuts dropped back into the pocket of the parka.

More than anything else, McFarlane felt a bleakness spread through him. It was as if, after all the recent shocks, he could find no more reserves of emotion to draw on.

"Well," he said finally. "Looks like I'm not the only Judas on this boat."

Amira returned his gaze, her face pale. "You always break into other people's rooms and read their private papers?"

McFarlane smiled coldly. He flipped the paper onto the desk. "Sorry, but this work is unsatisfactory. `Ambivalent' is misspelled. Eli's not going to paste a star by your name today." He stepped toward the door that was still blocked by her body. "Please step aside."

Amira faltered, dropped her eyes, but she did not step away. "Wait," she said.

"I said, step aside."

She nodded toward the printer. "Not until you read the rest."

A flush of rage coursed through him at this, and he raised his hand to brush her aside. Then, mastering himself, he willed his hand back down. "I've read quite enough, thanks. Now get the hell out of my way."

"Read the rest. Then you can go." Amira blinked, licked her lips. She stood her ground.

He held her gaze for a minute, perhaps two. Then he turned, reached for the rest of the report, and read.

As it happens, I agree with him. The evidence is strong, if not irrefutable, that this meteorite came from far beyond the solar system. Sam's theory has been vindicated. Furthermore, I see no evidence of obsession in Sam, or anything else that could pose a threat to the expedition. Just the opposite: the meteorite seems to be awakening the scientist in him. I've seen less of the sarcastic, defensive, and sometimes mercenary side of him that was so evident in the beginning; this has been replaced by a voracious curiosity, a profound desire to understand this bizarre rock.

And so this will be my third, and final, report. I can't in good conscience continue to provide these reports. If I sense problems, I'll report them. I'd do that in any case as a loyal EES employee. The fact is, this meteorite is stranger than any of us could have possibly foreseen. It may even be dangerous. I can't both watch him and work with him. You asked me to be Sam's assistant. And that's just what I plan to be — for his good, my good, and the good of the mission.

McFarlane pulled the chair away from the computer table and eased down into it, the paper crackling in his hand. He felt his anger draining away, leaving a confused welter of feelings.

For what seemed like a long time, neither one spoke. McFarlane could hear the distant rush of water, feel the faint thrumming of the engines. Then he looked up at her.

"It was Eli's idea," she said. "You were Lloyd's man, not his. You had a questionable history. And at that first meeting, that thing with the sandwich, you showed yourself to be a bit unpredictable. Unpredictable people make him nervous. So he told me to keep an eye on you. Write regular reports.

McFarlane sat, watching her in silence.

"I didn't like the idea. At first it was being your assistant that really got to me most, though. I just thought the reports would be a pain. But I had no idea — no idea — how hard they would actually be. I felt like a real shit every time I sat down to write one." She sighed deeply, a catch sounding in her throat. "These last couple of days... I don't know." She shook her head. "And then, writing this one... I just realized I couldn't do it anymore. Not even for him."

She abruptly fell silent. She dropped her eyes from his face to the carpet. Despite her efforts, he saw her chin tremble. A single tear charted an erratic course down her cheek.

Quickly, McFarlane rose from his chair and came to her. He drew the tear away. She put her hands around his neck and drew him toward her, burying her face in his neck.

"Oh, Sam," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right."

A second tear began to furrow down her cheek. He bent to brush it away, but she turned her face to meet his and their lips joined instead.

With a soft moan, she pulled him more tightly to her. McFarlane, drawn forward over the sofa, felt the pressure of her breasts against him, felt her calves sliding past his hips. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he felt her hands tease the back of his neck and her thighs lock around him, and he yielded to a flood of passion. He slid his hands beneath her dress and pulled her to him, raising her legs, pressing the palms of his hands against the insides of her knees. He kissed her ardently as her hands traced caressing lines down his back.

"Oh, Sam," she said again. And then she pressed her mouth to his.

Isla Desolación,

July 19, 11:30 A.M.

MCFARLANE EYED the towers of black lava that reared before him. The immense fangs were even more impressive close up. Geologically, he recognized them as classic "volcanic plugs" — the remnants of a twin volcano, in which the slopes had eroded away, leaving behind the two basalt-filled throats.

He turned around, glancing over his shoulder. Several miles behind and far below them, the landing area was a sprinkling of black dots on a white landscape, threadlike roads leading away across the island. In the wake of Rochefort's and Evans's deaths, recovery work had resumed immediately. It was being directed by Garza and the second engineer, Stonecipher, a humorless man who seemed to have inherited Rochefort's personality along with his duties.

Rachel Amira came up beside him, her breath frosty. She gazed up at the peaks, frowning. "How far do we have to go?"

"I want to reach that stripe of darker material about halfway up. That's probably a remnant of the last eruption, so we'd want to use that to date the flow."

"No problem," she said, rattling her gear with a show of bravado.

She had been in high spirits since meeting up for the climb, speaking little but humming and whistling to herself. McFarlane, on the other hand, felt restless, impatient.

His eyes traveled up the possible routes, looking for obstacles, cornices, loose rock. Then he started off again, snowshoes biting into the freshly fallen snow. They moved slowly, hiking up the talus slope. Near the base of the plug, McFarlane stopped at an unusual rock that poked out from the snow. He gave it a sharp rap with his rock hammer, slipped two chips into his sample pouch, and jotted a quick note.

"Playing with rocks," said Rachel. "How like a boy."

"That's why I became a planetary geologist."

"Bet you had a rock collection as a kid."

"Actually, no. What did you collect? Barbie dolls?"

Rachel snorted. "I had a rather eclectic collection. Bird's nests, snakeskins, dried tarantulas, bones, butterflies, scorpions, a dead owl, unusual roadkill — that sort of thing."

"Dried tarantulas?"

"Yeah. I grew up in Portal, Arizona, at the foot of the Chiricahua Mountains. In the fall, the big male tarantulas would come out onto the roads, looking to get laid. I had about thirty of them, mounted on a board. Goddamn dog ate my whole collection one day."

"Did the dog die?"

"Unfortunately, no. She threw them up all over my mom's bed, though. In the middle of the night. That was pretty funny." She giggled at the recollection.

They paused. The slope beyond grew steeper. Here the constant wind had given the snow a thick crust.

"Let's ditch the snowshoes," McFarlane said.

Despite the subzero weather, he felt overheated and tugged down the zipper of his parka. "We'll head for the saddle between the two peaks," he said, fitting crampons to his boots and moving forward again. "What kind of roadkill?"

"Herps, mostly."

"Herps?"

"Herpetological specimens. Amphibians and reptiles."

"Why?"

Rachel smiled. "Because they were interesting. Dry, flat easy to sort and store. I had some pretty unusual species."

"I bet your mom loved that."

"She didn't know about it."

They lapsed into silence, their breath leaving white trails behind them. A few minutes brought them to the saddle, and McFarlane stopped for another rest. "Three weeks on that damn ship has put me out of shape," he gasped.

"You did all right last night, mister." A grin began to spread across her face. Then she suddenly flushed, turning her face away.

He did not respond. Rachel had been a good partner, and he felt that he could trust her now, despite the duplicity. But what had happened last night was an unexpected complication. The last thing he wanted now were complications.

They rested for a few minutes, sharing a canteen of water. Far to the west, McFarlane could see a dark streak lying across the horizon: a harbinger of the storm.

"You seem different from the rest of Glinn's team," he said. "Why's that?"

"I am different. That's no accident. Everyone at EES is super cautious, including Glinn. He needed somebody who took risks. And, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm brilliant."

"I had noticed," said McFarlane, taking out a candy and handing it to her.

They chewed in silence. Then McFarlane stuffed the empty wrappers back into the pack and swung it over his shoulder, casting an appraising eye at the slope above them.

"It looks a little tricky from here. I'll go —"

But Rachel already began scrambling up the icy snowfield ahead of him. It rose to the bottom of the rock, getting bluer — icier — as it became steeper.

"Take it easy," he called up, looking out from the face. The view out over the rugged islands of the Horn group was spectacular. Far beyond, over the horizon, he could just see the tops of the Fuegian mountains. The Rolvaag, for all its bulk, looked like a child's bathtub toy in the black water of the bay. The destroyer could just be seen, mostly hidden by a rugged island. At the limit of vision, he could see the line of storm eating into the crystalline sky.

Looking back up, he was alarmed to see how quickly Rachel had climbed. "Slow down!" he called, more urgently this time.

"Slowpoke!" was the taunting reply.

And then a rock clattered past, followed by another, larger, inches from his ear. With a crumpling sound, a small part of the talus slope slid away from Rachel's feet, exposing a dark scar beneath the snow. She dropped heavily onto her stomach, legs dangling into space. A strangle of fear escaped her as she twisted, scrabbling for a purchase.

"Hold on!" McFarlane cried, scrambling upward.

In a moment he was on a broad ledge directly beneath her. He edged closer, cautious now, planting his feet carefully in the hard surface. He reached out and grasped her forearm. "I've got you," he panted. "Let go."

"I can't," she said between clenched teeth.

"It's okay," he repeated quietly. "I've got you."

She gave a small groan, then relaxed her grip. He felt her weight coming down on him and he twisted, guiding her feet to the broad ledge below him. She landed hard and collapsed, shaking, onto her knees.

"Oh, my God," she said, her voice quavering. "I almost fell." She put an arm around him.

"It's okay," he said. "You would've fallen all of five feet. Into a snowdrift."

"Really?" She looked down and made a wry face. "It felt like the whole mountain was falling away in a landslide. I was going to say you saved my life, but I guess you didn't. Thanks anyway."

She raised her head to his, giving him a quick light kiss on the mouth. She paused a moment, then kissed him again, more deliberately this time. Then, sensing resistance, she pulled back, regarding him intently with her dark eyes. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, the world spread out a thousand feet below them.

"You still don't trust me, Sam?" she asked quietly.

"I trust you."

She drew closer to him again, her eyebrows knitting in a look of consternation. "Then what's wrong? Is there somebody else? Our gallant captain, perhaps? Even Eli seems —" She stopped abruptly, her eyes cast downward, hugging her knees closely to herself.

Half a dozen responses came to McFarlane's mind, but each one seemed either frivolous or patronizing. For want of a better reply, he simply reshouldered the pack and shook his head, smiling foolishly.

"There's a good sampling spot maybe twenty feet up the slope," he said after a moment.

Rachel's eyes were still on the ground. "You go get your sample. I think I'll wait here."

It was the work of a few minutes to reach the site, hack half a dozen pieces of the darker basalt from the rock face, and return to Rachel. She stood up as he approached, and they climbed back down to the saddle in silence.

"Let's take a breather," McFarlane said at last, as casually as he could. His eyes were on Rachel. They would be working together closely for the rest of the expedition; the last thing he needed was to have an awkwardness between them. He put his hand on her elbow and she turned toward him expectantly.

"Rachel," he said. "Listen. Last night was wonderful. But let's leave it like that. At least for now."

Her look sharpened. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we have a job to do. Together. And it's complicated enough as it is. So let's not push things, okay?" She blinked quickly, then nodded, a brief smile covering the disappointment, even hurt, that had flashed across her face. "Okay," she said, looking away.

McFarlane put his arms around her. With her heavy parka, it was like embracing the Michelin man. With a gloved finger, he gently raised her face toward his.

"Is it okay?" he asked.

She nodded again. "It's not the first time I've heard it," she said. "It gets easier."

"What does that mean?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. I guess I'm just not very good at this kind of thing, that's all."

They held each other as the cold wind eddied around them. McFarlane looked down at the stray hairs curling away from the hood of Rachel's parka. And then, on impulse, he asked a question he'd been wondering about since the first night on the fly deck. "Was there ever anything between you and Glinn?"

She looked at him, then pulled away, her expression becoming guarded. Then she sighed, relaxing. "Oh, why the hell not tell you. It's true. Once upon a time, Eli and I had a thing. Just a little thing, I suppose. It was... very nice." A smile rose on her lips, then slowly faded. She turned away and sat down in the snow, legs kicked out before her, gazing out over the white vista beneath them.

McFarlane sat down beside her. "What happened?"

She glanced over. "Do I really need to spell it out? Eli broke it off." She smiled coldly. "And you know what? Everything was going great. There was nothing wrong. I'd never been happier in my life." She paused. "I guess that's what spooked him. He couldn't bear the thought that it wouldn't always stay that great. So when things couldn't get any better, he cut it off. Just like that. Because if things can't get any better, they can only get worse. That would be a failure. Right? And Eli Glinn is a man who can't fail." She laughed mirthlessly.

"But you two still think alike, in some ways," said McFarlane. "Like yesterday, in the library. I kind of figured you'd speak up. About what happened to Rochefort and Evans, I mean. But you didn't. Does that mean their deaths are okay with you, too?"

"Please, Sam. No death is okay. But almost every project I've worked on with EES has seen casualties. It's the nature of this business."

They sat a moment, looking away from each other. Then Rachel rose to her feet.

"Come on," she said quietly, dusting herself off. "Last one back has to clean the test tubes."

Almirante Ramirez,

2:45 P.M.

COMANDANTE EMILIANO Vallenar stood on the destroyer's puente volante, the flying bridge, scanning the enormous tanker with his field binoculars. Slowly, carefully, his eyes traveled from the bow, along the maindeck, on and on and on, until at last he reached the superstructure. As always, it was an interesting journey. He had lingered on it so long, and so carefully, that he felt he knew every rusted porthole, every davit, every smear of oil. There were certain things on this so-called ore carrier that he found suspicious: those antennas, hidden low, that looked distinctly as if they belonged to some passive electronic surveillance measuring device. And a very tall antenna at the top of the mast, despite its broken appearance, looked like an air-search radar.

He lowered the binoculars, reached into his coat with a gloved hand, and pulled out the letter from the geologist in Valparaiso.

Estimable Sir,

The rock which you so kindly furnished me is a somewhat unusual type of striated quartz — specifically, silicon dioxide — with microscopic inclusions of feldspar, hornblende, and mica. However, I am sorry to tell you that it is of no value whatsoever, either for commercial purposes or to mineral collectors. In response to your specific query, there are no traces of gold, silver, or any other valuable ores, minerals, or compounds present. Nor is this type of mineral found in association with deposits of oil, gas, oil shale, or other commercial hydrocarbon products.

Once again, I am humbly sorry to convey this information to you, as it must surely discourage any pursuit of your great-uncle's mining claim.

Vallenar traced the embossed seal at the top of the letter with his hand. Then, in a spasm of disgust, he balled it in his fist and shoved it into his pocket. The analysis was not worth the paper it was written on.

Once again, he raised the binoculars in the direction of the foreign vessel. No ship of its size should be moored here. In the Horn islands there was only one known anchorage, Surgidero Otter, and that was on the far side of Isla Wollaston. In the Franklin Channel, there was no decent holding ground at all, with the exception of an uncharted ledge that he, alone, had discovered. The currents were strong. Only a very ignorant captain would try to moor here. And then he would have surely run mooring cables to shore.

But this vessel had dropped anchor in bad ground, and had been sitting there for a number of days, swinging back and forth with the tide and wind, as if it had found the finest holding ground in the world. At first, Vallenar had been astonished by this. It seemed miraculous. But then he had noticed small, infrequent swirls of water at the vessel's stern, and he realized that its stern thrusters were running. Always running. They were adjusting their thrust to keep the ship stationary in the ever-changing currents of the channel, except at the change of tide, when he could see they were being used to swing the ship around.

And that could mean only one thing: the anchor cables were a deception. The ship was equipped with a dynamic positioning system. This required a link to a geopositioning satellite and a powerful computer operating the ship's engines, working together to maintain an exact position on the surface of the earth. It was the very latest technology. Vallenar had read about it, but never seen it. No ship in the Chilean navy was equipped with DPS. Even in a small vessel, it was extremely costly to install and burned a tremendous amount of fuel. And yet here it was, on this alleged shabby converted tanker.

He breathed deeply, swiveling the binoculars from the ship to the island beyond. He took in the equipment shed, the road leading inland to the mine. There was a large scar on a hillside where heavy equipment was at work, beside what might be leaching pools. But there was also a deception here. There were no hydraulic nozzles or sluicing work to indicate placer mining. Except for the pools, it was a neat operation. Too neat, in fact. He had grown up in a mining camp in the north, and he knew what they were like.

In his heart, the comandante now knew the Americans were not digging for gold. And any fool could see they were not digging iron ore. It looked more like a diamond pipe operation than anything else. But if the Americans were mining diamonds, why then had they brought such a huge vessel with them? The whole operation, from start to finish, carried a strong odor of duplicity.

He wondered if the work had anything to do with the legends about the island, the old myths of the Yaghans. He vaguely remembered the borracho, Juan Puppup, rambling on about some legend in the bar one evening. He tried to remember what it was: something about an angry god and his fratricidal son. When he got his hands on Puppup, he would make sure the mestizo's last earthly act would be to tell him everything he knew.

Footsteps approached, then the oficial de guardia, the officer of the deck, appeared at his side. "Comandante," the man said, snapping a salute. "Engine room reports all engines on line."

"Very well. Make your course zero nine zero. And please send Mr. Timmer to me."

The officer saluted again, then turned and left the flying bridge. Vallenar scowled as he watched the man retreat down the metal stairway. New orders had come in; as usual, they amounted to more worthless patrolling in desolate waters.

With his good hand, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and found the chunk of rock that had been returned with the letter. It was barely larger than a prune. And yet he was convinced it held the secret to what the Americans were doing. They had learned something from the prospector's machine and the sack of rocks. Something important enough to bring a vast amount of money and equipment to this remote, dangerous place.

Vallenar clutched the rock tightly. He needed to know what the Americans knew. If the moronic geologist at the university could not help him, he would find somebody who could. He knew that Australia had some of the best geologists in the world. That was where he would send it, by urgent express. They would unlock the pebble's secret. Then he would know what they were after. And how to respond.

"Sir!" The voice of Timmer intruded on his thoughts.

Vallenar glanced over at the man's trim figure, standing at rigid attention; glanced over his blue eyes and sunbleached hair, his spotless uniform. Even in a crew that had been drilled for instant, instinctive obedience, Oficial de Comunicaciones Timmer stood out. His mother had come to Chile from Germany in 1945; a beautiful woman, cultivated, sensual. Timmer had been raised with discipline. And he was no stranger to the use of force.

"At ease," said Vallenar, his tone softening. Timmer relaxed almost imperceptibly.

Vallenar clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out at the flawless sky. "We are heading east," he said, "but we will return here tomorrow. Bad weather is expected."

"Yes, sir." Timmer continued staring straight ahead.

"On that day, I will have an assignment for you. It will involve a degree of risk."

"I look forward to it, sir."

Comandante Vallenar smiled. "I knew you would," he said, the faintest touch of pride in his voice.

Rolvaag,

2:50 P.M.

MCFARLANE PAUSED just inside the outer door of the Rolvaag's sick bay. He'd always had a morbid fear of doctors' offices and hospitals — any place with intimations of mortality. The Rolvaag's waiting room was devoid even of the false sense of tranquillity such places ordinarily tried to project. The well-thumbed magazines, the shabby Norman Rockwell reproductions, were missing. The only decoration was a large medical school poster detailing, in full color, various diseases of the skin. The place smelled so strongly of rubbing alcohol and iodine that McFarlane believed the strange old doctor must be using them for rug cleaner.

He hesitated a moment, feeling a little foolish. This errand can wait, he thought. But then, with a deep breath, he found himself walking across the room and into a long hallway. He stopped at the last door and rapped on the frame.

Captain Britton and the doctor were inside, quietly discussing a chart that lay open on the table between them. Brambell sat back in his chair, casually closing the folder as he did so. "Ah, Dr. McFarlane." The dry voice held no surprise. He stared at McFarlane, eyes unblinking, waiting.

This can wait, he thought again. But it was too late; they were both looking at him expectantly. "Masangkay's effects," he said aloud. "Those things with the body? Now that you've completed the tests, can they be released?"

Brambell continued to look at him. It was a stare not of human compassion but of clinical interest. "There was nothing of value among them," he answered.

McFarlane leaned against the doorframe and waited, refusing to betray anything to the watchful eyes. At last, the doctor sighed. "Once they've been photographed, I see no reason to keep them. What precisely are you interested in?"

"Just let me know when they're ready, will you?" McFarlane pushed himself away from the frame, nodded to Britton, and turned back toward the waiting room. As he pulled open the outer door, he heard quick footsteps behind him.

"Dr. McFarlane." It was Captain Britton. "I'll walk topside with you."

"Didn't mean to break up the party," McFarlane said, swinging out into the hall.

"I have to get back up to the bridge anyway. I'm expecting an update on that approaching storm."

They moved down the wide corridor, dark except for the regular stripes of sunlight that slanted inward from the round portholes.

"I'm sorry about your friend Masangkay, Dr. McFarlane," she said with unexpected kindness.

McFarlane glanced at her. "Thanks." Even in the dim corridor, her eyes were bright. He wondered if she was going to probe his nostalgic desire for Nestor's effects, but she remained silent. Once again, he was struck by an indefinable feeling of kinship. "Call me Sam," he said.

"Okay, Sam."

They stepped out of the stairwell onto the maindeck.

"Take a turn around the deck with me," Britton said.

Surprised, McFarlane followed her back through superstructure to the fantail. Something in her stately bearing, in the sway of her walk, reminded him of his ex-wife, Malou. A pale golden light lay over the ship's stern. The water of the channel shone a rich, deep blue.

Britton walked past the landing pad and leaned against the rail, squinting into the sun. "Sam, I have a dilemma. I frankly don't like what I'm hearing about that meteorite. I fear it will endanger the ship. A seaman always trusts her gut. And I really don't like seeing that out there." She motioned toward the low, slender line of the Chilean destroyer lying in the waters beyond the channel. "On the other hand, from what I've seen of Glinn, I have every reason to expect success." She glanced at him. "You see the paradox? I can't trust Eli Glinn and my own instincts both. And if I need to act, I need to act now. I'm not going to put anything in the hold of my ship that isn't safe."

In the pitiless sunlight, Britton looked older than her years. She's thinking of aborting the mission, he thought in surprise.

"I don't think Lloyd would be very happy if you balked now," he said.

"Lloyd isn't the master of the Rolvaag. I'm speaking to you, as I did before, because you're the only one I can speak to."

McFarlane looked at her.

"As captain, I can't confide in any of my officers or crew. And I certainly can't speak to EES personnel about these concerns. That leaves you, the meteorite expert. I need to know if you think that meteorite will endanger my ship. I need your view, not Mr. Lloyd's."

McFarlane held her gaze a moment longer. Then he turned back toward the sea.

"I can't answer your question," he said. "It's dangerous enough — we've learned that the hard way. But will it specifically endanger the ship? I don't know. But I think maybe it's too late for us to stop, even if we wanted to."

"But in the library, you spoke up. You had concerns. Just as I did."

"I'm very concerned. But it isn't that simple. That meteorite is as deep a mystery as any in the universe. What it represents is so important that I think we've got no choice but to continue. If Magellan had soberly taken into account all the risks, he never would have begun his voyage around the world. Columbus would never have discovered America."

Britton was silent, studying him intently. "You think this meteorite is a discovery on a par with Magellan or Columbus?"

"Yes," he said finally. "I do."

"In the library, Glinn asked you a question. You didn't answer it."

"I couldn't answer it."

"Why?"

He turned and looked into her steady green eyes. "Because I realized — despite Rochefort, despite everything — I want that meteorite. More than I've ever wanted anything."

After a pause, Britton drew herself up. "Thank you, Sam," she said. Then, turning smartly, she headed for the bridge.

Isla Desolación,

July 20, 2:05 P.M.

MCFARLANE AND Rachel stood at the edge of the staging area, in the cold afternoon sun. The eastern sky was clear and bright, the landscape below painfully sharp in the crisp air. But the sky to the west looked very different: a vast, dark cloak that stretched across the horizon, tumbling low, moving in their direction, blotting out the mountain peaks. A gust of wind swirled old snow around their feet. The storm was no longer just a blip on a screen: it was almost on top of them.

Garza came toward them. "Never thought I'd like the look of a storm as ugly as that one," he said, smiling and pointing westward.

"What's the plan now?" McFarlane asked.

"Cut and cover, from here to the shore," said Garza with a wink.

"Cut and cover?"

"Instant tunnel. It's the simplest engineered tunnel, a technique that's been used since Babylon. We dig a channel with a hydraulic excavator, roof it over with steel plates, and throw dirt and snow on top to hide it. As the meteorite is dragged toward the shore, we backfill the old tunnel and dig new tunnel ahead."

Rachel nodded toward the hydraulic excavator. "That baby makes Mike Mulligan's steam shovel look like a Tonka toy."

McFarlane thought back to all that had been accomplished in the two days since the meteorite crushed Rochefort and Evans. The tunnels had been cleared and reshored, and double the number of jacks positioned under the rock. The meteorite had been raised without a hitch, a cradle built underneath it, and the dirt cleared away. A gigantic steel flatbed cart had been brought up from the ship and positioned next to it. Now it was time to drag the meteorite and its cradle onto the cart. Garza had made it all look so easy.

The engineer grinned again. He was garrulous, in high spirits. "Ready to see the heaviest object ever moved by mankind get moved?"

"Sure," said McFarlane.

"The first step is positioning it on the cart. We'll have to uncover the meteorite for that. Briefly. That's why I like the look of that storm. Don't want those damn Chileans getting a gander at our rock."

Garza stepped back and spoke into his radio. Farther away, Stonecipher made a motion with his hands to the crane operator. As McFarlane watched, the crane operator began removing the steel roofing plates off the cut that held the meteorite and stacking them nearby. The wind was picking up, whistling about the huts and whipping snow along the ground. The final metal plate twisted wildly in the air as the crane operator fought to hold the boom steady against the gusts. "To the left, to the left!" Stonecipher called into his radio. "Now, boom down, boom down, boom down... Cut." After a tense moment, it, too, was set safely aside. McFarlane gazed into the open trench.

For the first time, McFarlane saw the meteorite exposed in its entirety. It lay in its cradle, a bloodred, lopsided egg atop a nest of timbers and metal I-beams. It was a breathtaking sight. Dimly, he was aware that Rachel was speaking.

"What did I tell you," she said to Garza. "He's got the look."

"The look" was a term she had coined for the way almost anybody — technicians, scientists, construction workers — tended to stop what they were doing and stare at the meteorite, as if mesmerized.

With an effort, McFarlane pulled his gaze from the meteorite to her. The infectious twinkle of merriment — so evidently missing for the last twenty-four hours — had returned to her eyes.

"It's beautiful," he said.

He glanced back down the length of the exposed tunnel to the cart that would carry the rock. It was a remarkablelooking thing, a honeycombed flatbed of steel and ceramiccarbon composite a hundred feet long. Although he could not see them from above, McFarlane knew that beneath the cart was an array of heavy-duty aircraft tires: thirty-six axles, with forty tires on each axle, to bear the staggering weight of the meteorite. At the far end, a massive steel capstan rose from a socket in the tunnel bed.

Glinn was calling out orders to dark figures in the tunnel, raising his voice above the increasing fury of the wind. The front now loomed above them, a cliff of dark weather that ate away daylight as it approached. He broke off and came over to McFarlane.

"Any new results from the second set of tests, Dr. McFarlane?" he asked as he watched the men work beneath them.

McFarlane nodded. "On several fronts." He fell silent. It was only a small satisfaction, he knew: making Glinn ask. It continued to rankle him, Glinn's monitoring his actions. But he had decided not to make an issue of it — at least not now.

Glinn inclined his head, as if perceiving the thought. "I see. May we hear them, please?"

"Sure thing. We have its melting point now. Or rather, I should say vapor point, since it goes directly from a solid to a gas."

Glinn raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"One point two million degrees Kelvin."

Glinn breathed out. "Good Lord."

"We've also made some progress on its crystalline structure. It's an extremely complicated, asymmetrical fractal pattern built from nested isosceles triangles. The patterns repeat themselves at different scales from the macroscopic all the way down to individual atoms. A textbook fractal. Which explains its extreme hardness. It appears to be elemental, not an alloy."

"Any more information about its place on the periodic table?"

"Very high up, above one seventy-seven. A superactinide element, probably. The individual atoms appear to be gigantic, each with hundreds of protons and neutrons. It's most definitely an element in the `island of stability' we talked about earlier."

"Anything else?"

McFarlane took a breath of frosty air. "Yes. Something very interesting. Rachel and I dated the Jaws of Hanuxa. The volcanic eruptions and lava flows date almost precisely to the time of the meteorite's impact."

Glinn's eyes flickered toward him. "Your conclusion?"

"We always assumed that the meteorite landed near a volcano. But now it looks as if the meteorite made the volcano."

Glinn waited.

"The meteorite was so heavy and dense, and traveling so fast, that it punched deep into the earth's crust, like a bullet, triggering the volcanic eruption. That's why Isla Desolación, alone among the Cape Horn islands, is volcanic. In his journal, Nestor talked about the `weird coesite' of the region. And when I reexamined the coesite with the X-ray diffractor, I realized he was right. It is different. The meteorite's impact was so severe that the surrounding rock that wasn't vaporized underwent a phase change. The impact chemically changed the material into a form of coesite never seen before."

He gestured in the direction of the Jaws of Hanuxa. "The force of the eruption, the turbulence of the magma and the explosive release of gases, carried the meteorite back up, where it froze into position several thousand feet down. Over millions of years, in the uplift and erosion of the southern Cordillera, it gradually moved closer and closer to the surface, until it finally eroded out of the island valley. At least, that's what seems to fit the facts."

There was a thoughtful silence. Then Glinn looked over at Garza and Stonecipher. "Let's proceed."

Garza shouted out orders. McFarlane watched as some of the figures in the tunnel below gingerly attached a webbing of thick Kevlar straps to the cradle and the meteorite. Others pulled more straps over the top of the sled and into position around the capstan. Then the group stood back. There was a metallic cough, then a throaty rumble, and the ground beneath McFarlane's feet came alive with vibration. Two massive diesel generators began turning the steel capstan. As it turned, the webbing of Kevlar straps slowly began to wind up, taking out the slack, tightening around the rock. The generators stopped: the meteorite was now ready to move.

McFarlane's eyes returned to the meteorite. The shadow of the storm fell across the staging area, and the meteorite looked duller, as if some internal fire had been quenched.

"Jesus," Rachel said, glancing at the wall of wind and snow that was boiling toward them. "Here it comes."

"Everything's in position," Garza said.

Glinn turned, the wind tugging at his parka. "We stop at the first sign of lightning," he said. "Move it."

There was a sudden rising darkness, a muffled howl, and pellets of snow came blasting horizontally through the air. In an instant, McFarlane's view was reduced to monochromatic shadows. Over the fury of the wind came the roar of heavy machinery as the generators came up to speed. The ground was shaking harder now, and a low, subauditory rumble — a pressure on the ear and gut — went through him. The generators climbed, whining louder as they strained to move the rock.

"It's a historic moment," Rachel wailed, "and I can't see a damn thing."

McFarlane pulled the hood of his parka tight around his face and crouched forward. He could see the Kevlar was drawn tight now, the straps like bars of iron, singing under the strain. Creaks and strange twanging noises rose up, audible even over the wind. The rock did not move, and the tension began to mount. The twanging noises rose in pitch; the generators roared; and still the rock remained stationary. And then, at the height of the cacophony, McFarlane thought he saw the meteorite move. But with the wind shrieking in his ears and the snow obscuring his vision, he could not be sure.

Garza looked up, smiled crookedly, and gave them a thumbs-up.

"It's moving!" Rachel cried.

Garza and Stonecipher shouted orders to the workers below. Beneath the cradle, the steel runners squealed and smoked. Workers pumped a continuous slurry of graphite on the runners and the surface of the cart. The acrid smell of burning steel rose to McFarlane's nostrils.

And then it was over. With a tremendous, decaying groan, the meteorite and its cradle settled onto the waiting cart. The Kevlar straps loosened, and the generators powered down.

"We did it!" Rachel pressed her index fingers to her lips and gave a piercing whistle.

McFarlane gazed down at the meteorite, now safely mounted on the cart. "Ten feet," he said. "Ten thousand miles to go."

Beyond the Jaws of Hanuxa, there was a brilliant flash of lightning, then another. A monstrous clap of thunder rolled past them. The wind rose in strength, tearing at the snow, sending sheets of white across the ground and into the trench.

"That's it!" Glinn called out to the group. "Mr. Garza, please cover the tunnel."

Garza turned toward the crane operator, one gloved hand keeping his hood secure against the wind. "Can't do it!" he shouted back. "The wind's too strong. It'll topple the boom."

Glinn nodded. "Then pull the tarps and ribbing over it until the storm passes."

As McFarlane watched, a group of workers ran down both sides of the trench, unrolling a tarp as they went, struggling to keep it in place against the rising fury, of the wind. It was streaked with mottled white and gray, camouflaged to resemble the bleak surface of the island. McFarlane was impressed once again by Glinn's ability to anticipate every possibility, to have a contingency plan always waiting in the wings.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time, gave a strange illumination to the snow-heavy air.

Satisfied that the tarp had been properly secured, Glinn nodded to McFarlane. "Let's get back to the huts." He looked over at Garza. "I want the area cleared of personnel until the storm passes. Post a guard at four-hour shifts."

Then he motioned to McFarlane and Rachel and they began to make their way across the staging area, leaning into the howling wind.

Isla Desolación,

10:40 P.M.

ADOLFO TIMMER waited behind a large snowdrift, motionless in the dark. He had lain, watching, until he was almost completely buried by the storm. Down below, he could see the faint glow of lights, fading in and out of the snow. It was now after midnight, and he had seen no activity. The cleared area was deserted, the workers no doubt sheltering in the huts. It was time to act.

Timmer raised his head against the still-intensifying blast. He rose, the wind whipping the accumulated snow from his limbs. Around him, the storm had shaped the snow into long, diagonal fins, some more than ten feet high. It was perfect cover.

He moved forward on his snowshoes, shielded by the drifts. He stopped near the edge of the cleared area. Ahead lay a pool of dirty light. Crouching behind a snowbank, he waited, then raised his head and looked around. Perhaps fifty yards away, a lone shack stood, the wind moaning through gaps in its corrugated roof. On the far side of the cleared area, across from the shack, he could make out the long row of Quonset huts, their windows small squares of yellow. Beside them were other structures and some containers. As he stared, Timmer's eyes narrowed. The leaching ponds and tailing piles across the island had proved to be a ruse, a cover for something else.

But what?

He tensed. From around the corner of the shack, a man in a heavy parka appeared. He opened the door of the shack, looked inside, closed it again. Then he walked slowly along one edge of the cleared area, rubbing his mittens together, ducking his head against the wind and snow.

Timmer watched carefully. The man was not out for an evening smoke. He was doing guard duty.

But why post a guard over an old shack and a barren patch of ground?

He crept forward, slowly, until he reached another drift. He was much closer to the shack now. He waited, motionless, as the man returned to its door, stamped warmth into his feet, then walked away again. Unless there was somebody else posted inside the shack, the guard was alone.

Timmer came around the side of the drift and approached the building, keeping it between him and the guard. He stayed close to the ground, letting the darkness and the storm conceal him, careful to expose only the white nylon of his snowsuit to the circle of light.

Before he left the Almirante Ramirez, the comandante had told him to take no unnecessary risks. He had said it more than once: Be very careful, Mr. Timmer. I want you back in one piece. There was no way to know if the guard was armed: Timmer would assume he was. Crouching in the shadow of the shack, he reached into his snowsuit. His hand closed around the handle of his knife and slid it out of the scabbard, making sure it had not frozen in place. Tugging off one glove, he felt the blade: ice cold and razor sharp. Excellent. Yes, my Comandante, he thought: I will be very, very careful. He clasped it tightly, ignoring the cold that bit into his fingers. He wanted the blade warm enough to cut through flesh without freezing and snagging.

He waited as the storm grew even stronger. The wind whipped around the bare sides of the shack, howling and crying. He pulled his hood from his head, listening with his naked ear. Then he heard it again: the soft swish and crush of footsteps approaching through the snow.

A faint shadow came into view around the edge of the hut, barely visible in the dim light. Timmer pressed against the shack as it approached. There was the sound of breathing, the thumping of arms as the man hugged himself against the cold.

Timmer spun around the comer, lashing out low with his foot. The figure fell facedown in the snow. In a flash Timmer was on top of him, knee digging into his back, dragging the man into shadow while wrenching back his head. The knife came forward, scoring deeply across the man's neck. Timmer felt the blade grating against the cervical vertebrae. There was a soft gurgle, then a rush of hot blood. Timmer continued to hold the man's head back, letting his life drain into the snow. Then he relaxed his grip and eased the body forward.

Timmer turned the man over and examined his face. He was white, not the mestizo the comandante had told him to watch for. He patted the man's pockets quickly, finding a two-way radio and a small semiautomatic weapon. He slipped them into his pocket, then concealed the body in a nearby drift, sweeping snow over it and smoothing over the area. He cleaned his knife in the snow and carefully buried the bloody mush. The fact that he had seen only one guard did not mean there could not be another.

Moving around the rear of the shack and keeping out of the light, he crept along the edge of the cleared area, following the path the guard had walked. It was most curious: there was nothing here but snow. As he stepped forward again, the ground yielded suddenly beneath one of his snowshoes, and he scrambled backward in surprise. Exploring cautiously, on his hands and knees now, he felt something strange beneath the thin covering of snow. It was not earth, it was not a crevasse; there was a hollow beneath the ground, with some kind of cloth stretched tight across it, held up by spacers.

Carefully, Timmer made his way back to the shadows behind the shack. Before he explored further, he would have to make sure there were no surprises inside. Keeping his knife poised, he crept around to the front, opened the door a crack, and glanced within. It was deserted. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He pulled out a small flashlight and swept it around. The beam illuminated nothing but kegs full of nails.

Why would somebody post a guard in front of a useless, empty shack?

Then he noticed something. Quickly, he turned out his light. A faint line of light was coming from the edge of a steel plate beneath one of the kegs.

Moving it aside, Timmer saw a trapdoor of banded metal. He knelt beside it, listening intently for a moment. Then he grasped the door and lifted it gingerly.

After the hours of waiting and watching in the winter night, the fluorescence that streamed up was blinding. He closed the trapdoor again and crouched in the darkness, thinking. Then he removed his snowshoes, concealed them in the far comer of the hut, and opened the door again, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then, knife in hand, he descended the ladder.

Thirty feet down, he stepped off the ladder into the tunnel. He paused. It was warmer down here, but at first Timmer barely noticed: in the glare of the light he felt exposed and vulnerable. He moved rapidly along the tunnel, keeping low. This was like no gold mine he had ever heard of. In fact, it was like no mine at all.

Reaching a junction, he paused to look around. There was nobody: no sound, no movement. He licked his lips, wondering what to do next.

Then he paused. Up ahead, the tunnel widened. There was an open space ahead, with something very large in it. He crept to the edge of the open area and shined his light around. A giant cart.

Timmer approached it cautiously, creeping along the wall. It was a huge steel flatbed trailer, perhaps a hundred feet long. Mounted to its underside were big tires: hundreds of them, on gleaming titanium axles. His eyes traveled slowly upward. Built on the cart was a complex pyramid of wooden struts and members. And nestled in that was something Timmer had never seen or imagined before. Something huge and red. Something that gleamed with impossible richness in the artificial light of the tunnel.

He looked around again, then approached the cart. Setting one foot on the closest tire, he pulled himself onto the platform, breathing heavily. He was quickly overheating in his heavy snowsuit, but he ignored the discomfort. Overhead, a large tarp was stretched tightly across the open roof: the tarp onto which he had stepped. But Timmer had no interest in this. His eyes were on the thing resting in the huge cradle.

Very carefully, he climbed the wooden struts toward it. There was no doubt about it: this, this was what the Americans had come for. But what was it?

There was no time to waste; there was no time even to hunt for the little mestizo. Comandante Vallenar would want to know about this right away. And yet still Timmer hesitated, balanced on the wooden cradle.

The thing was almost ethereal in its beauty. It was as if it had no surface; as if he could put his hand forward and thrust it right into its ruby depths. As he stared, he thought he could see subtle patterns within, shifting and changing, coruscating in the light. He almost imagined a coldness emanating from it, cooling his overheated face. It was the most beautiful, otherworldly thing he had ever seen.

Without taking his eyes away, Timmer slipped the knife into a pocket, pulled off his glove, and held his hand forward, slowly, almost reverently, toward the rich and shining surface.

Isla Desolación,

11:15 P.M.

SAM MCFARLANE jerked awake, heart pounding. He would have thought it a nightmare, if the sound of the explosion was not still reverberating across the landscape. He stood bolt upright, the chair falling to the floor behind him. From the corner of his eye he saw that Glinn, too, was on his feet, listening. As they met each other's gaze, the lights in the hut winked out. There was a moment of pitch-blackness, and then an emergency light snapped on over the door, bathing the room in pale orange.

"What the hell was that?" McFarlane said. His voice was almost drowned out by a loud gust of wind: the window had been blown out, and snow swirled into the hut, mingling with wooden splinters and shards of glass.

Glinn approached the window and gazed out into the stormy darkness. Then he glanced at Garza. He, too, was on his feet. "Who's got duty?"

"Hill."

Glinn raised a radio. "Hill. This is Glinn. Report." He took his thumb from the transmit button and listened. "Hill!" he called again. Then he switched frequencies. "Forward post? Thompson?" He was answered by a loud hiss of static.

He dropped the radio. "Radio's out, I'm not getting any responses." He turned back to Garza, who was pulling on his snowsuit. "Where are you going?"

"To the electrical hut."

"Negative. We'll go together."

Glinn's tone had become sharper, military. "Yes, sir," Garza replied briskly.

There was a clattering outside, then Amira tumbled in from the communications hut, snow clinging to her shoulders.

"Power's down everywhere," she gasped. "All we've got is the reserve."

"Understood," Glinn said. A small Glock 17 pistol had appeared in his hand. He checked the magazine, then tucked it into his belt.

McFarlane had turned to reach for his own snowsuit. As he thrust his arms into the sleeves, he saw Glinn look at him. "Don't even say it," McFarlane began. "I'm coming with you."

Glinn hesitated, and saw his resolve. He turned to Amira. "You stay here."

"But —"

"Rachel, we need you here. Lock the door after we leave. We'll have a guard here shortly."

Within moments, three of Glinn's men, Thompson, Rocco, and Sanders, appeared at the door, powerful torches in their hands and Ingram M10 submachine guns slung over their shoulders.

"Everyone accounted for except Hill, sir," Thompson said.

"Sanders, have guards posted at every hut. Thompson, Rocco, you come with me." Glinn strapped on snowshoes, grabbed a torch, and led the way out into the swirling dark.

McFarlane struggled with the unfamiliar snowshoes. Hours of drowsing by the stove had made him forget how cold it was outside, how sharp the snowflakes felt when the wind drove them against his face.

The electrical hut lay only fifty yards away. Garza unlocked the door and they entered the small space, Thompson and Rocco sweeping it with their torches. The smell of burnt wiring hung in the air. Garza knelt to pull open the gray metal cover of the master control cabinet. As he did so, a cloud of acrid smoke billowed out into the light of the torches.

Garza ran his finger down the panel. "Totally fried," he said.

"Estimated time to repair?" Glinn asked.

"Main switching box, ten minutes, max. Then we can run diagnostics."

"Do it. You men, get outside and guard the door."

The construction chief worked in silence while McFarlane looked on. Glinn tried the radio again; finding it was still broadcasting nothing but noise, he replaced it in his pocket. At length, Garza stepped back and threw a series of switches. There was a click and a hum, but no lights. With a grunt of surprise, Garza opened a nearby metal locker, withdrew a palmtop diagnostic computer, plugged it into a jack on the master control cabinet, and switched it on. A small blue screen flickered into life.

"We've got multiple burnouts, up and down the line," he said after a moment.

"What about the surge suppressors?"

"Whatever it was, it caused one hell of a spike. Over a billion volts in under a millisecond, with a current exceeding fifty thousand amps. No dampeners or surge suppressors could protect against that."

"A billion volts?" McFarlane said in disbelief. "Not even lightning is that powerful."

"That's right," Garza said, pulling the tool from the panel and dropping it into a pocket of his snowsuit. "A burst of this size makes lightning look like static cling."

"Then what was it?"

Garza shook his head. "God knows."

Glinn stood still a moment, gazing at the fused components. "Let's check the rock."

They stepped back out into the storm, moved past the huts, and struggled across the staging area. Even from a distance, McFarlane could see that the tarp had been torn from its tethers. As they drew nearer, Glinn made a suppressing motion with his hand, then instructed Rocco and Thompson to enter the shack and descend into the tunnel. Pulling out his pistol, Glinn moved forward carefully, Garza at his side. McFarlane stepped up to the edge of the trench, the tattered remains of the tarp billowing skyward like ghostly linen. Glinn angled the beam of the torch downward, into the tunnel.

Dirt, rocks, and charred wood were scattered everywhere. Part of the cart was twisted and fused, hissing faintly. sending up clouds of steam. Globs of foamy metal, now resolidified, spattered the tunnel. Beneath the cart, several rows of tires had melted together and were now burning, sending up foul clouds of smoke.

Glinn's eyes moved rapidly around the scene, following his torch. "Was it a bomb?"

"Looks more like a gigantic electrical arc."

Lights wavered at the far end of the tunnel, then Thompson and Rocco approached beneath them, waving away the pall of smoke. They began spraying fire suppressant on the burning tires.

"See any damage to the meteorite?" Glinn called down.

There was a pause as the men below made a visual inspection. "Can't see a scratch on it."

"Thompson," Glinn said, pointing down into the trench. "Over there."

McFarlane followed his arm to a spot beyond the cart. Something was burning fitfully. Nearby, ragged clumps of matter and bone glistened in the flickering light. Thompson shined his torch toward one of them. There was a hand, a piece of what looked like a flayed human shoulder, a twisted length of grayish entrails.

"Christ," McFarlane groaned.

"Looks like we found Hill," said Garza.

"Here's his gun," Thompson said.

Glinn shouted down into the tunnel. "Thompson, I want you to check the rest of the tunnel system. Report anything you find. Rocco, roust up a med team. Let's get those remains gathered up."

"Yes, sir."

Glinn looked back toward Garza. "Get the perimeter secured. Gather all surveillance data and get it analyzed right away. Call back to the ship for a general alert. I want a new power grid up and running in six hours."

"All communications with the ship are down," said Garza. "We're getting nothing but noise on all channels."

Glinn turned back toward the tunnel. "You! Thompson! When you're done here, take a snowcat to the beach. Contact the ship from the landing area. Use Morse if you have to."

Thompson saluted, then turned and made his way down the tunnel. In a moment he disappeared from view in the smoke and darkness.

Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Go get Amira and any diagnostic tools you'll need. I'm going to have a team sweep the tunnels. Once the area's secured, and Hill's body is removed, I want you to examine the meteorite. Nothing elaborate for the time being. Just determine what happened here. And don't touch that rock."

McFarlane looked down. At the base of the cart, Rocco was slipping what looked like a lung onto a folded section of tarp. Above, the meteorite steamed in its wooden bed. He wasn't about to touch it, but he said nothing.

"Rocco," Glinn called out, pointing to an area just to the rear of the damaged cart, where there was a faint flickering "You've got another small fire over there."

Rocco approached it with the extinguisher, then stopped short. He looked up at them. "I think it's a heart, sir."

Glinn pursed his lips. "I see. Extinguish it, Mr. Rocco, and carry on."

Isla Desolación,

July 21, 12:05 A.M.

AS MCFARLANE trudged across the staging area toward the row of huts, the wind pressed rudely at his back, as if trying to force him to his knees. Beside him, Rachel stumbled, then recovered.

"Is this storm ever going to end?" she asked.

McFarlane, his mind a whirlwind of speculation, did not reply.

In another minute they were inside the medical hut. He peeled out of his suit. The air was rich with the smell of roasted meat. He saw that Garza was speaking into a radio.

"How long have you had communications?" he asked Glinn.

"Half an hour, or thereabouts. Still spotty, but improving."

"That's odd. We just tried to contact you from the tunnel and got nothing but radio noise." McFarlane began to speak again, but fell silent, forcing his mind to work through the weariness.

Garza lowered his radio. "It's Thompson, from the beach. He says Captain Britton refuses to send anyone over with the equipment until the storm dies down. It's too dangerous."

"That's not acceptable. Give me that radio." Glinn spoke rapidly. "Thompson? Explain to the captain that we've lost communications, the computer network, and the power grid. We need the generator and the equipment, and we need them now. Lives are at risk. If you encounter any more difficulties, let me know and I'll see to it personally. Get Brambell out here, too. I want him to examine Hill's remains."

Distantly, McFarlane watched Rocco, hands and forearms hidden by heavy rubber gloves, removing charred body parts from a tarp and placing them in a freezer-locker.

"There's something else, sir," Garza said, listening once again to the radio. "Palmer Lloyd's in communication with the Rolvaag. He demands to be patched through to Sam McFarlane."

McFarlane felt himself shocked back into the stream of events. "It's not exactly the best time, is it?" he said with a disbelieving laugh, looking at Glinn. But the expression on Glinn's face took him by surprise.

"Can you rig up a squawk box?" Glinn asked.

"I'll grab one from the communications hut," Garza said.

McFarlane spoke to Glinn. "You're not really going to chitchat with Lloyd, are you? Now, of all times?"

Glinn returned the look. "It beats the alternative," he replied.

Only much later did McFarlane realize what Glinn meant.

Within minutes, the hut's transmitter had been jury-rigged with an external speaker. As Garza attached his radio, a wash of static filled the room. It faded into silence, grew louder, then faded again. McFarlane glanced around: at Rachel, huddled near the stove for warmth; at Glinn, pacing in front of the radio; at Rocco, industriously sorting body parts in the back of the room. He had a theory — or the beginnings of one. It was still too raw, too full of holes, to be shared. And yet he knew he had little choice.

There was a squeal of feedback, then a ragged voice emerged from the speaker. "Hello?" it said. "Hello?" It was Lloyd, distorted.

Glinn leaned forward. "This is Eli Glinn, Mr. Lloyd. Can you hear me?"

"Yes! Yes, I can! But you're damned faint, Eli."

"We're experiencing some kind of radio interference. We'll have to be brief. There's a great deal going on at the moment, and our battery power is limited."

"Why? What the hell is going on? Why didn't Sam call in for his daily briefing? I couldn't get a straight answer from that bloody captain of yours."

"There's been an accident. One of our men is dead."

"Two men, you mean. McFarlane told me about that incident with the meteorite. Damn shame about Rochefort."

"There's been a new fatality. A man named Hill."

There was a piercing shriek from the speaker. Then Lloyd's voice returned, even fainter now: " — happened to him?"

"We don't know yet," Glinn said. "McFarlane and Rachel Amira have just returned from examining the meteorite." He motioned McFarlane toward the speaker.

McFarlane moved forward with great unwillingness. He swallowed. "Mr. Lloyd," he began. "What I'm about to tell you is theoretical, a conclusion based on what I've observed. But I think we were wrong about how Nestor Masangkay died."

"Wrong?" said Lloyd. "What do you mean? And what does it have to do with the death of this man Hill?"

"If I'm right, it has everything to do with it. I think both men died because they touched the meteorite."

For a moment, the hut was silent save for the pop and stutter of the radio.

"Sam, that's absurd," Lloyd said. "I touched the meteorite."

"Bear with me. We thought Nestor was killed by lightning. And it's true, the meteorite is a powerful attractor. But Garza can tell you that the blast in the tunnel was on the order of a billion volts. No lightning bolt could produce that kind of power. I examined the cart and meteorite. The pattern of damage shows definite signs that the meteorite threw out a massive blast of electricity itself."

"But I laid my damn cheek against it. And I'm still here."

"I know that. I don't have an answer yet to why you were spared. But nothing else fits. The tunnel was deserted, the meteorite was shielded from the elements. No other force was acting upon it. It looks like a bolt of electricity came out of the rock, passed through part of the cart and cradle, spraying molten metal outward. And beneath the cart, I found a glove. It was the only piece of Hill's clothing not burned. I think he dropped the glove so he could touch the meteorite."

"Why would he do something like that?" Lloyd asked impatiently.

This time, it was Rachel who spoke up. "Why did you?" she asked. "That's one mighty strange-looking rock. You can't always predict what someone's going to do the first time they see it."

"Jesus, this is unbelievable," Lloyd said. There was a moment of silence. "But you can proceed. Right?"

McFarlane darted a look at Glinn.

"The cart and the cradle have been damaged," Glinn said. "But Mr. Garza tells me they can be repaired within twentyfour hours. The meteorite remains a question, however."

"Why?" Lloyd asked. "Was it damaged?"

"No," Glinn continued. "It appears to be unscathed. I'd given standing orders from the beginning to treat this thing as if it was dangerous. Now — if Dr. McFarlane's right — we know that it is. We must take additional precautions to load that rock onto the ship. But we have to move fast: it's also dangerous to remain here any longer than absolutely necessary."

"I don't like it. You should have figured out these precautions before we ever left New York."

It seemed to McFarlane that Glinn's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Mr. Lloyd, this meteorite has confounded all our expectations. We're now outside the parameters of the original EES analysis. That has never happened before. Do you know what that normally means?" Lloyd did not reply.

"We abort the project," Glinn finished.

"That is not a goddamn option!" Lloyd was suddenly shouting, but the reception had grown so poor that McFarlane had to strain to hear. "I don't want that kind of talk. You hear me? Glinn, you get the goddamn rock on the boat and you bring it home."

Abruptly, the radio cut out.

"He terminated the transmission," said Garza.

The hut was silent; all eyes were on Glinn.

Over the man's shoulder, McFarlane could see Rocco, still at his grisly task. He had what looked like a piece of skull in his gloved hands, an eyeball hanging from it, held only by the ocular nerve.

Rachel sighed, shook her head, and rose slowly from her wooden chair. "So what do we do?"

"For now, help us get the plant back on line. Once we have power, you two will tackle that problem." Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Where's Hill's glove?"

"Right here." McFarlane reached wearily for his satchel, pulled out a sealed baggie, and held it up.

"That's a leather glove," Garza said. "The construction team was issued Gore-Tex gloves."

There was a sudden silence.

"Mr. Glinn?"

Rocco's voice was so sharp, the note of surprise so clear, that everyone glanced toward him. He still had the piece of skull in his hand, poised in front of his chin, as if he were about to take a snapshot with it.

"Yes, Mr. Rocco?"

"Frank Hill had brown eyes."

Glinn's face flicked from Rocco to the skull and then back again, the mute question clear on his face.

With an oddly delicate motion, Rocco drew the cuff of his shirt across the dangling eyeball, wiping it clean.

"This isn't Hill," he said. "This eye is blue."

Isla Desolación,

12:40 A.M.

GLINN STOPPED, arrested by the sight of the eyeball dangling from a strip of nerve. "Mr. Garza?" His voice was unusually calm.

"Sir."

"Get a team together. Find Hill. Use probes, thermal sensors."

"Yes, sir."

"But keep a sharp eye out. Watch for booby traps, snipers. Don't rule out anything."

Garza disappeared into the night. Glinn took the shattered eye from Rocco and began rotating it under his gaze. It seemed to McFarlane that he scrutinized it as one might a piece of fine porcelain. Then he walked over to the table where the body parts lay divided between the tarp and the cold-storage locker.

"Let's see what we've got here," he murmured. As McFarlane watched, he began sorting through them, handling each piece, peering at it critically, setting it down again and moving to the next, like a shopper browsing the meat section of a supermarket.

"Blond," he said, holding up a tiny hair to the light. He began assembling pieces of the head. "High cheekbones... close-cropped hair... Nordic features..." He put them aside and continued rummaging. "Death's head tattoo on the right arm... Young, perhaps twenty-five."

His examination lasted fifteen minutes, during which nobody else spoke. At last, he straightened up and went to wash his hands in the sink. There was no water, so he flicked the excess matter from his hands and wiped them with a towel. Then he paced the length of the hut, turned, walked back.

Suddenly, Glinn went still. He seemed to have come to a decision. He plucked a radio from the table. "Thompson?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's the status on the generator?"

"Britton is bringing it herself; she wouldn't risk her crew. She says Brambell will come as soon as it's safe. The storm is supposed to ease by dawn."

The radio beeped and Glinn switched frequencies. "Found Hill," came Garza's terse voice.

"Yes?"

"He was buried in a snowdrift. Throat cut. Very professional piece of work."

"Thank you, Mr. Garza." Glinn's profile was dully illuminated in the emergency light of the hut. A single bead of sweat stood on his brow.

"And there's a pair of snowshoes hidden in the entrance shack. Like the glove, they're not ours."

"I see. Bring Hill's body to the medical hut, please. We wouldn't want it to freeze before Dr. Brambell arrives; that would be inconvenient."

"So who was this other man?" McFarlane asked.

Instead of answering, Glinn turned away and murmured something in Spanish, just loud enough for McFarlane to catch: "You are not a wise man, mi Comandante. Not a wise man at all."

Isla Desolación,

July 23, 12:05 P.M.

THE STORM eased, and forty-eight hours passed without further incident. Security was beefed up considerably; guard duty was tripled, additional cameras were installed, and a perimeter of motion-detecting sensors was sunk into the snow around the operation.

Meanwhile, work on the sunken roadway proceeded at a breakneck pace. As soon as one section was built, the meteorite and cart were dragged along, inch by inch, to rest only while the capstan was repositioned, a new section of roadway built, and the previous section filled in. Safety precautions around the meteorite had been redoubled.

At last, the excavators reached the interior of the snowfield. Here, sheltered beneath almost two hundred feet of solid ice, the meteorite waited while digging teams cored through the snowfield from both ends.

Eli Glinn stood inside the mouth of the ice tunnel, watching the progress as the great machines worked. All had gone according to plan, despite the two recent deaths. Half a dozen thick hoses snaked out of the hole in the ice, diesel fumes and soot spewing from their ends: a jury-rigged forced-air system to suck exhaust from the tunnel while the heavy machinery carved through the ice. It was beautiful in its way, Glinn thought, one more engineering marvel in a long list since the project had begun. The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were rough-edged and irregular, fractal in their endless knobs and ridges. A million cracks and fissures ran away in crazy spiderwebs across the walls, white against the shockingly deep blue of the ice. Only the floor was even, covered with the omnipresent crushed gravel over which the cart would travel.

A single row of fluorescent lights lit the tunnel. Peering ahead, Glinn could see the meteorite on its cart, a red blob inside an eerie blue tube. The tunnel echoed with the crashing and grinding of unseen machinery. There was a wink of headlights in the distance, then some kind of vehicle made its way around the meteorite and came toward him. It was a train of ore carts, full of glittering blue shards of ice.

The revelation that the meteorite could kill by touch had startled Glinn more than he cared to admit. Despite that he had instituted orders never to touch the rock directly, he had always considered this merely a judicious precaution. He sensed that McFarlane was right: the touch had caused the explosion. There seemed to be no other possible answer. A strategic recalculation had become necessary. It had caused yet another revision in his failure-success analysis — one that required virtually all of EES's computer capacity back in New York to process.

Glinn looked once again at the red rock, sitting like a huge gemstone on its bed of greenheart oak. This was the thing that killed Vallenar's man, killed Rochefort and Evans, killed Masangkay. Strange that it had not killed Lloyd. It was undeniably deadly... but the fact was, they were still ahead of schedule on fatalities. The volcano project had cost fourteen lives, including one meddling government minister who insisted on being where he shouldn't have been. Glinn reminded himself that, despite the strangeness of the rock, despite the problem of the Chilean destroyer, this remained essentially a heavy moving job.

He glanced at his watch. McFarlane and Amira would be on time; they always were. And he could see them now, stepping out of a snowcat at the mouth of the ice tunnel, McFarlane lugging a duffel bag full of instruments. In five minutes they were at Glinn's side. He turned to them. "You've got forty minutes until the tunnel is complete and the meteorite is moved again. Make good use of it."

"We intend to," said Amira.

He watched her pulling gear out of the duffel and setting up instruments, while McFarlane silently took pictures of the rock with a digital camera. She was capable. McFarlane had learned about her reports, as he had expected. This had had the desired effect: it put McFarlane on notice that his behavior was being scrutinized. It also gave Amira an ethical dilemma to occupy herself with, always helpful in distracting her from the thornier moral questions she had a tendency to ask. Moral questions that had no place in a cold-blooded engineering project. McFarlane had taken it better than the profile predicted. A complicated man, and one who had proven himself unusually useful.

Glinn noticed another cat arriving, also with a passenger. Sally Britton stepped out, a long coat of navy blue wool billowing out behind her. Uncharacteristically, there was no officer's cap on her head, and her wheat-colored hair gleamed in the lights of the tunnel. Glinn smiled. He had also been expecting this, ever since the explosion that killed the Chilean spy. Expecting it, even looking forward to it.

As Britton drew near, Glinn turned toward her with a genuinely welcoming smile. He took her hand. "Nice to see you, Captain. What brings you down here?"

Britton looked around, her intelligent green eyes taking in everything. They froze when they saw the meteorite.

"Good God," she said, her step suddenly faltering.

Glinn smiled. "It's always a shock at first sight."

She nodded wordlessly.

"Nothing great can happen in this world, Captain, without some difficulty." Glinn spoke quietly, but with great force. "It's the scientific discovery of the century." Glinn did not particularly care about its value to science; his interest was solely in the engineering aspects. But he was not going to eschew a little drama, if it served his purposes.

Britton continued staring. "They said it was red, but I had no idea..."

The roar of heavy machinery echoed down the ice tunnel as she stared: one minute, then two. At last, with obvious effort, she took a breath, pulled her eyes away, and faced him.

"Two more people have been killed. But what news we've had from you has been slow in coming, and rumors are everywhere. The crew are nervous, and so are my officers. I need to know exactly what happened, and why."

Glinn nodded, waiting.

"That meteorite is not coming on board my ship until I'm convinced it's safe." She said it all at once and then stood firm, her slim, small form planted on the gravel.

Glinn smiled. This was one hundred percent Sally Britton. Every day he admired her more.

"I feel exactly the same way," he said.

She looked at him, off balance, obviously having expected resistance.

"Mr. Glinn, we have a dead Chilean naval officer to explain to the authorities. We have a warship out there somewhere, a destroyer that likes to train its guns on us. Three of your people are dead. We have a twenty-five-thousand-ton rock that, when it isn't crushing people, blows them to bits, and you want to put it inside my ship." She paused a moment, then continued, her voice lower. "Even the best crews can get superstitious. There's been a lot of wild talk."

"You are right to be concerned. Let me brief you on what happened. I apologize for not coming to the ship myself, but as you know we've been fighting the clock."

She waited.

"Two nights ago, during the storm, we had an intruder from the Chilean ship. He was killed by an electrical discharge from the meteorite. Unfortunately, not before he murdered one of our men."

Britton looked at him sharply. "So it's true? Lightning shot out of the meteorite? I didn't believe it. And I sure as hell don't understand it."

"It's actually quite simple. It's made of a metal that is a superconductor of electricity. The human body — human skin — has an electrical potential. If you touch the meteorite, the meteorite discharges some of the electricity circulating inside it. Like a blast of lightning, only greater. McFarlane has explained the theory to me. That's what we believe killed the Chilean, as well as Nestor Masangkay, the man who first discovered the meteorite."

"Why does it do that?"

"McFarlane and Amira are working on that question now. But moving the rock is the priority now, and they haven't had time for further analysis."

"So what's to prevent this from happening on my ship?"

"Another good question." Glinn smiled. "We're working on that one too. We're taking great precautions to make sure no one touches it. Indeed, we had instituted such a policy even before we realized that touch could trigger an explosion."

"I see. Where does the electricity come from?"

Glinn's hesitation was very brief. "That's one of the things that Dr. McFarlane is studying right now."

Britton did not respond.

Quite suddenly, Glinn took her hand. He felt a brief, instinctive resistance. Then she relaxed.

"I understand your concerns, Captain," he said gently. "That's why we are taking all possible precautions. But you must believe we will not fail. You must believe in me. Just as I believe in you to maintain discipline aboard your ship, despite the nervousness and superstitions of the crew."

She looked at him, but he could see her eyes irresistibly drawn back to the great red rock.

"Stay a while," said Glinn softly, smiling. "Stay and watch us bring the heaviest object ever moved by mankind to your ship."

She looked from the rock toward him, then back to the rock, hesitating.

A radio on her belt chirped. She immediately freed herself and stepped away. "This is Captain Britton," she said.

Watching the change in her face, Glinn knew precisely what she must be hearing.

She replaced the radio. "The destroyer. It's returned."

Glinn nodded. The smile had not left his face. "No surprise," he said. "The Almirante Ramirez has lost one of her own. Now she's come to get him back."

Rolvaag,

July 24, 3:45 P.M.

NIGHT WAS falling over Isla Desolación. Coffee cup in hand, McFarlane watched the twilight gather from the solitude of the fly deck. It was a perfect evening: clear, cold, windless. In the distance, there were some remaining streaks of clouds: mare's tails of pink and peach. The island lay etched in light, unnaturally clear and crisp. Beyond, the glossy waters of Franklin Channel reflected the last rays of the setting sun. Farther still lay Vallenar's destroyer, gray, malevolent, the name Almirante Ramirez barely legible on its rust-streaked sides. That afternoon it had moved in closer, nosing into place at the entrance to Franklin Channel — their only route of exit. Now it looked as though it planned to stay.

McFarlane took a sip of coffee, then impulsively poured the rest over the side. Caffeine was the last thing he needed right now. There was already a tremendous tension in his gut. He wondered just how Glinn was planning to deal with the destroyer, on top of everything else. But Glinn had seemed calm that day; exceptionally calm. He wondered if the man was having a nervous breakdown.

The meteorite had been moved — painfully, centimeter by centimeter — through the icefield and down the sunken roadway to the edge of Isla Desolación. It had finally reached a bluff overlooking Franklin Channel. To hide it, another of Glinn's corrugated metal shacks had gone up. McFarlane examined the shack from the deck. As usual, it was a masterpiece of deception: a rusty contraption of secondhand metal that listed dangerously. Bald tires had been piled in front. He wondered how they planned to lower it into the hold; Glinn had been exceptionally cagey. All he knew was, it was going to happen in a single night: that night.

The hatch opened and McFarlane turned at the sound. He was surprised to see Glinn, who hadn't been on board the ship, as far as he could tell, for almost a week.

The man sauntered over casually. Although his face remained gray, there was an easiness to his movements. "Evening," he said.

"You seem awfully calm."

Instead of replying, Glinn removed a pack of cigarettes and, much to McFarlane's surprise, slid one into his mouth. He lit it, the match flaring against his sallow face, and took a long drag.

"Didn't know you smoked. Out of costume, anyway."

Glinn smiled. "I allow myself twelve cigarettes a year. It's my one foolishness."

"When was the last time you slept?" McFarlane asked.

Glinn gazed out over the peaceful waters. "I'm not sure. Sleep is like food: after the first few days you stop missing it."

He smoked in silence for a few minutes. "Any fresh insights from your time in the ice tunnel?" he asked at last.

"Tantalizing bits and pieces. It has an atomic number in excess of four hundred, for example."

Glinn nodded.

"Sound travels through it at ten percent the speed of light. It has a very faint internal structure: an outer layer and an inner layer, with a small inclusion in the center. Most meteorites come from the breakup of a larger body. This one is just the opposite: it looks like it grew by accretion, probably in a jet of plasma from a hypernova. Sort of like a pearl around a grain of sand. That's why it's somewhat symmetrical."

"Extraordinary. And the electrical discharge?"

"Still a mystery. We don't know why a human touch should trigger it when nothing else seems to. We also don't know why it is that Lloyd, alone, escaped getting blown to bits. We've got more data than we can even begin to analyze, and it's all contradictory."

"What about the way our radios were knocked out after the explosion? Any connection?"

"Yes. It seems that after the discharge, the meteorite was in an excited state, emitting radio waves — long-wavelength electromagnetic radiation. That accounts for the interference with radio communication. Over time, it died down, but in its immediate vicinity — say, inside the tunnel — the meteorite was still throwing off enough radio noise to defeat radio traffic for several hours, at least."

"And now?"

"It's settled down. At least until the next explosion."

Glinn puffed silently, savoring the cigarette as McFarlane watched. Then he gestured toward the shore, and the rickety shack that concealed the meteorite. "In a few hours, that thing will be in the tank. If you have any last reservations, I need to know now. Our lives at sea depend on it."

McFarlane said nothing. He could almost feel the burden of the question settling on his shoulders. "I simply can't predict what's going to happen," he said.

Glinn smoked. "I'm not asking for a prediction, only an educated guess."

"We've had the chance to observe it, under various conditions, for almost two weeks. Except for the electrical discharge apparently caused by human touch, it seems completely inert. It doesn't react to metal touching it, or even a high-powered electron microprobe. As long as our safety precautions are kept rigidly in place, I can't think of any reason why it should act differently in the holding tank of the Rolvaag."

McFarlane hesitated, wondering if his own fascination with the meteorite was causing him to lose his objectivity. The idea of leaving it behind was... unthinkable. He changed the subject. "Lloyd's been on the satellite phone almost hourly, and he's desperate for news."

Glinn inhaled blissfully, his eyes half closed, like a Buddha. "In thirty minutes, as soon as it's fully dark, we bring the ship up against the bluff and begin loading the meteorite on a tower built out of the tank. It will be in the tank by three A.M., and by dawn we'll be a good way to international waters. You can relate that to Mr. Lloyd. Everything is under control. Garza and Stonecipher will be running the operation. I won't even be needed until the final stage."

"What about that?" McFarlane nodded toward the destroyer. "Once you start lowering the rock into the tank, it's going to be exposed for all to see. The Rolvaag will be a sitting duck."

"We will work under cover of darkness and a predicted fog. Nevertheless, I will be paying a call on Comandante Vallenar during the critical period."

McFarlane was not sure he had heard correctly. "You'll be doing what?"

"It will distract him." Then, more quietly, "And it will serve other purposes as well."

"That's insane. He might arrest you, or even kill you."

"I don't believe so. By all accounts, Comandante Vallenar is a brutal man. But he is not crazy."

"In case you hadn't noticed, he's blocking our only exit." Night had fallen, and a cloak of darkness had settled over the island. Glinn checked his gold watch, then pulled a radio out of his pocket. "Manuel? You may commence."

Almost instantaneously, the bluff was lit up by banks of brilliant lights, bathing the bleak landscape in a cold illumination. A swarm of workers appeared as if out of nowhere. Heavy machinery growled.

"Jesus, why don't you put up a billboard saying: `Here it is'?" asked McFarlane.

"The bluff is not visible from Vallenar's ship," Glinn said. "It's blocked by that headland. If Vallenar wants to see what this new activity is about — and he will — he'll have to move the destroyer back up to the northern end of the channel. Sometimes the best disguise is no disguise at all. Vallenar, you see, won't be expecting our departure."

"Why not?"

"Because we will also continue the decoy mining operation all night long. All the heavy equipment, and two dozen men, will remain on the island, working at a feverish pace. There will be occasional explosions, naturally, and lots of radio traffic. Just before dawn, something will be found. Or at least it will look that way to the Almirante Ramirez. There will be great excitement. The workmen will take a break to discuss the discovery." He flicked the butt away, watching it sail into the darkness. "The Rolvaag's tender is hidden on the far side of the island. As soon as we depart, the tender will load up the men and meet us behind Horn Island. Everything else will be left behind."

"Everything?" McFarlane let his mind run over the shacks full of equipment, the dozers, the container labs, the huge yellow haulers.

"Yes. The generators will be running, all the lights will be left on. Millions of dollars' worth of heavy equipment will be left on the island in plain view. When Vallenar sees us move, he'll assume we're coming back."

"He won't give chase?"

Glinn did not respond for a moment. "He might"

"What then?"

Glinn smiled. "Every path has been analyzed, every contingency planned for." He raised his radio again. "Bring the vessel in toward the bluff."

After a pause, McFarlane could feel the vibration of the big engines. Slowly, very slowly, the great ship began to turn.

Glinn looked back toward McFarlane. "You have a critical role in this, Sam."

McFarlane looked at him in surprise. "Me?"

Glinn nodded. "I want you to stay in communication with Lloyd. Keep him informed, keep him calm, and, above all, keep him where he is. It might be disastrous if he came down now. And now, farewell. I must prepare for my meeting with our Chilean friend." He paused and looked McFarlane steadily in the face. "I owe you an apology."

"What for?" McFarlane asked.

"You know very well what for. I couldn't have wished for a more consistent or reliable scientist. At the conclusion of the expedition, our file on you will be destroyed."

McFarlane didn't quite know what to make of this confession. It seemed sincere; but then, everything about the man was so calculated that he wondered if even this admission was intended to do double, or even triple duty, in Glinn's grand scheme.

Glinn held out his hand. McFarlane took it, and laid his other hand on Glinn's shoulder.

In a moment Glinn was gone.

It was only later that McFarlane realized the thick padding he'd felt under his fingers was not a heavy coat but a flak vest.

Franklin Channel,

8:40 P.M.

GLINN STOOD at the bow of the small launch, welcoming the frigid air that streamed across his face. The four men who were part of the operation sat on the deck of the dark pilothouse, suited up, silent and out of sight. Directly ahead, the lights of the destroyer wavered in the calm waters of the sound. As he predicted, it had moved up channel.

He glanced back toward the island itself. An immense cluster of lights surrounded the feverish mining activity. Heavy equipment rumbled back and forth. As he watched, the faint crump of a distant explosion rolled through the air. By comparison, the real work taking place on the bluff looked incidental. The movement of the Rolvaag had been presented, through radio traffic, as a precaution against another storm — the big ship would be moving into the lee of the island and stringing cables to shore.

He smelled the moisture-laden sea air, breathed in the deceptive calm. A big storm was certainly coming. Its precise nature was a secret shared only by Glinn, Britton, and the on-duty officers of the Rolvaag; there had seemed no need to distract the crew or the EES engineers at such a critical moment. But satellite weather analysis indicated it might develop into a panteonero, a cemetery wind, kicking up as early as dawn. Such a wind always started out of the southwest and then swung around to the northwest as it gained strength. Such winds could grow to Force 15. But if the Rolvaag could get through the Strait of Le Maire by noon, they would be in the lee of Tierra del Fuego before the worst of the wind started. And it would be at their backs: ideal for a large tanker, hellish for a small pursuer.

He knew that Vallenar must now be aware of his approach. The launch moved slowly, its full complement of running lights on. Even without radar it would be conspicuous against the black, moonless night water.

The launch drew within two hundred yards of the ship. Glinn heard a faint splash behind him but did not turn around. As expected, three other splashes quickly followed. He was aware of a preternatural calmness, a sharpening of his senses, that always came before an op. It had been a long time, and the feeling was pleasant, almost nostalgic.

A spotlight on the destroyer's fantail snapped on and swiveled toward the launch, blinding him with its brilliance. He remained motionless in the bow as the launch slowed. If he was going to be shot, this would be the moment. And yet he felt an unwavering conviction that the destroyer's gun would remain silent. He breathed in, then exhaled slowly, once, twice. The critical moment passed.

They met him at the boarding hatch and led him up through a series of foul passageways and slippery metal stairways. At the entrance to the puente, the bridge, they paused. Except for the deck officer, Vallenar was alone. He stood at the forward windows, looking out at the island, cigar in his mouth, hands clasped behind his back. It was cold; either the heating system did not work, or it had been turned off. Like the rest of the ship, the bridge smelled of engine oil, bilgewater, and fish.

Vallenar did not turn. Glinn let a very long silence ensue before he began.

"Comandante," he said in polite, measured Spanish, "I have come to pay you my respects."

A faint noise issued from Vallenar, which Glinn took for amusement. The man still did not turn. The atmosphere around Glinn seemed charged with superhuman clarity; his body felt light, as if made of air.

Vallenar removed a letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and paused. Glinn could see the letterhead of a well-known Australian university. Vallenar spoke at last. "It's a meteorite," he said, his voice flat and dry.

So he knew. It had seemed the most unlikely path of those they had analyzed; but now it became the path they must follow.

"Yes."

Vallenar turned. His heavy woolen coat fell back, displaying an old Luger snugged into his belt.

"You are stealing a meteorite from my country."

"Not stealing," said Glinn. "We are within international law."

Vallenar barked out a laugh, hollow on the nearly deserted bridge. "I know. You are a mining operation, and it is metal. I was wrong after all: you did come down here for iron."

Glinn said nothing. With every word of Vallenar's, he was getting priceless information about the man; information that would allow him to make ever more accurate predictions on future behavior.