Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

Lloyd's broad features narrowed. "And that is... ?"

"One hundred and fifty million dollars. Including chartering the transport vessel. FOB the Lloyd Museum."

Lloyd's face went pale. "My God. One hundred and fifty million..." His chin sank onto his hands. "For a ten-thousand-ton rock. That's..."

"Seven dollars and fifty cents a pound," said Glinn.

"Not bad," McFarlane said, "when you consider that the going rate for a decent meteorite is about a hundred bucks a pound."

Lloyd looked at him. "Is that so?"

McFarlane nodded.

"In any case," Glinn continued, "because of the unusual nature of the job, our acceptance comes with two conditions."

"Yes?"

"The first condition is double overage. As you'll see in the report, our cost estimates haven't been especially conservative. But we feel that, to be absolutely safe, twice that amount must be budgeted for."

"Meaning it's really going to cost three hundred million dollars."

"No. We believe it's going to cost one hundred and fifty, or we wouldn't have presented you with that figure. But

given all the unknown variables, the incomplete data, and the immense weight of the meteorite, we need some maneuvering room."

"Maneuvering room." Lloyd shook his head. "And the second condition?"

Glinn took the folder from under his arm and placed it on one knee. "A dead man's switch."

"What's that?"

"A special trapdoor, built into the bottom of the transport vessel, so that in the direst emergency the meteorite can be jettisoned."

Lloyd seemed not to understand. "Jettison the meteorite?"

"If it ever shook loose from its berth, it could sink the ship. If that happened, we'd need a way to get rid of it, fast."

As Lloyd listened to this, the pallor that had come across his face gave way to a flush of anger. "You mean to say the first time we hit a rough sea, you dump the meteorite overboard? Forget it."

"According to Dr. Amira, our mathematician, there's only a one-in-five-thousand chance of it being necessary."

McFarlane spoke. "I thought he was paying the big bucks because you guaranteed success. Dumping the meteorite in a storm sounds like a failure to me."

Glinn glanced at him. "Our guarantee is that EES will never fail in our work. And that guarantee is unequivocal. But we can't guarantee against an act of God. Natural systems are inherently unpredictable. If a freak storm came out of nowhere and foundered the vessel, we wouldn't necessarily consider that a failure."

Lloyd bounded to his feet. "Well, there's no way in hell I'm going to drop the meteorite to the bottom of the ocean. So there's no point in letting you build a dead man's switch." He took several steps away from them, then stopped, facing the pyramid, arms folded.

"It's the price of the dance," Glinn said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried total conviction.

For a time, Lloyd made no reply. The big man shook his head, clearly in the grip of an inner struggle. At last he turned.

"All right," he said. "When do we start?"

"Today, if you like." Glinn stood up, carefully placing his folder on the stone bench. "This contains an overview of the preparations we'll need to make, along with a breakdown of the associated costs. All we need is your go-ahead and a fifty-million retainer. As you will see, EES will handle all the details."

Lloyd took the folder. "I'll read it before lunch."

"I think you'll find it interesting. And now, I'd better get back to New York." Glinn nodded at the two men in turn. "Gentlemen, enjoy your pyramid."

Then he turned, made his way across the sandy clearing, and disappeared into the tightly woven shade of the maple trees.

Millburn, New Jersey,

June 9, 2:45 P.M.

ELI GLINN sat, motionless, behind the wheel of a nondescript four-door sedan. By instinct, he had parked at an angle that maximized sun glare off the windshield, making it difficult for passersby to observe him. He dispassionately took in the sights and sounds of the typical East Coast suburb: tended lawns, ancient trees, the distant hum of freeway traffic.

Two buildings down, the front door of a small Georgian opened and a woman appeared. Glinn straightened up with an almost imperceptible motion. He watched attentively as she descended the front steps, hesitated, then looked back over her shoulder. But the door had already shut. She turned away and began walking toward him briskly, head held high, shoulders straight, light yellow hair burnished by the afternoon sun.

Glinn opened a manila folder lying on the passenger seat and studied a photograph clipped to the papers inside. This was her. He slipped the folder into the rear of the car and looked back through the window. Even out of uniform the woman radiated authority, competence, and self-discipline. And nothing about her betrayed how difficult the last eighteen months must have been. That was good, very good. As she approached, he lowered the passenger window: according to his character profile, surprise offered the highest hope of success.

"Captain Britton?" he called out. "My name is Eli Glinn. Could I have a word with you?"

She paused. He noted that, already, the surprise on her face was giving way to curiosity. There was no alarm or fear; merely quiet confidence.

The woman stepped toward the car. "Yes?"

Automatically, Glinn made a number of mental notes. The woman wore no perfume, and she kept her small but functional handbag clasped tightly against her side. She was tall, but fine-boned. Although her face was pale, tiny crinkles around the green eyes and a splash of freckles gave evidence of years spent in the sun and wind. Her voice was low.

"Actually, what I have to say might take a while. Can I drop you somewhere?"

"Unnecessary, thank you. The train station's just a few blocks away."

Glinn nodded. "Heading home to New Rochelle? The connections are very inconvenient. I'd be happy to drive you."

This time the surprise lingered a little longer, and when it died away it left a look of speculation in the sea green eyes. "My mother always told me never to get into a stranger's car.

"Your mother taught you well. But I think what I have to say will be of interest to you."

The woman considered this a moment. Then she nodded. "Very well," she said, opening the passenger door and taking a seat. Glinn noticed that she kept her purse in her lap, and her right hand, significantly, stayed on the door handle. He was not surprised she had accepted. But he was impressed by her ability to size up a situation, examine the options, and quickly arrive at a solution. She was willing to take a risk, but not a foolish one. This is what the dossier had led him to expect.

"You'll have to give me directions," he said, pulling away from the curb. "I'm not familiar with this part of New Jersey." This was not precisely true. He knew half a dozen ways to get to Westchester County, but he wanted to see how she handled command, even one as small as this. As they drove, Britton remained collected, giving terse directions in the manner of someone accustomed to having her orders obeyed. A very impressive woman indeed, perhaps all the more impressive for her single catastrophic failure.

"Let me get something out of the way from the beginning," he said. "I know your past history, and it has no bearing on what I'm about to say."

From the comer of his eye, he saw her stiffen. But when she spoke, her voice was calm. "I believe that at this point, a lady is supposed to say, `You have me at a disadvantage, sir.'"

"I can't go into details at the moment. But I'm here to offer you the captaincy of an oil tanker."

They rode for several minutes in silence.

At last she glanced over at him. "If you knew my history as well as you say, I doubt you'd be making such an offer." Her voice remained calm, but Glinn could read many things in her face: curiosity, pride, suspicion, perhaps hope. "You're wrong, Captain Britton. I know the whole story. I know how you were one of the few female masters in the tanker fleet. I know how you were ostracized, how you tended to catch the least popular routes. The pressures you faced were immense." He paused. "I know that you were found on the bridge of your last command in a state of intoxication. You were diagnosed an alcoholic and entered a rehabilitation center. As a result of rehab, you successfully retained your master's license. But since leaving the center over a year ago, you've had no new offers of command. Did I miss anything?" He carefully waited for the reaction.