Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"That it is," McFarlane replied.

"Care to bet how many miles away it is?"

McFarlane frowned. "Excuse me?"

"A small wager. On the distance to that lighthouse."

"I'm not a betting man. Besides, you probably have some arcane mathematical formula at your fingertips."

"You'd be right about that." Amira shelled some more peanuts, tossed the nuts into her mouth, then flung the shells into the sea. "So?"

"So what?"

"Here we are, bound for the ends of the earth, out to snag the biggest rock anybody's ever seen. So, Mr. Meteorite Hunter, what do you really think?"

I think —" McFarlane began. Then he stopped. He realized he wasn't allowing himself to hope that this second chance — which after all had come out of nowhere — might actually work out.

"I think," he said aloud, "that we'd better get down to dinner. If we're late, that captain of ours will probably keelhaul us. And that's no joke on a tanker."

Rolvaag,

June 26, 12:55 A.M.

THEY STEPPED out of the elevator. Here, five decks closer to the engines, McFarlane could feel a deep, regular vibration: still faint, yet always present in his ears and his bones.

"This way," Amira said, motioning him down the blue-and-white corridor.

McFarlane followed, glancing around as they went. In dry dock, he'd spent his days and even most nights in the container labs on deck, and today marked his first time inside the superstructure. In his experience, ships were cramped, claustrophobic spaces. But everything about the Rolvaag seemed built to a different scale: the passages were wide, the cabins and public areas spacious and carpeted. Glancing into doorways, he noticed a large-screen theater with seats for at least fifty people, and a wood-paneled library. Then they rounded a corner, Amira pushed open a door, and they stepped into the officer's mess.

McFarlane stopped. He had been expecting the indifferent dining area of a working ship. But once again the Rolvaag surprised him. The mess was a vast room, extending across the entire aft forecastle deck. Huge windows looked out onto the ship's wake, boiling back into the darkness. A dozen round tables, each set for eight and covered with crisp linen and fresh flowers, were arranged around the center of the room. Dining stewards in starched uniforms stood at their stations. McFarlane felt underdressed.

Already, people were beginning to gravitate toward the tables. McFarlane had been warned that seating arrangements on board ship were regimented, at least at first, and that he was expected to sit at the captain's table. Glancing around, he spotted Glinn standing at the table closest to the windows. He made his way across the dark carpeting.

Glinn had his nose in a small volume, which he quickly slipped into his pocket as they approached. Just before it vanished, McFarlane caught the title: Selected Poetry of W.H. Auden. Glinn had never struck him as a reader of poetry. Perhaps he had misjudged the man after all.

"Luxurious," McFarlane said as he looked around. "Especially for an oil tanker."

"Actually, this is fairly standard," Glinn replied. "On such a large vessel, space is no longer at a premium. These ships are so expensive to operate, they spend practically no time in port. That means the crews are stuck on board for many, many months. It pays to keep them happy."

More people were taking their places beside the tables, and the noise level in the room had increased. McFarlane looked around at the cluster of technicians, ship's officers, and EES specialists. Things had happened so quickly that he only recognized perhaps a dozen of the seventy-odd people now in the room.

Then quiet fell across the mess. As McFarlane glanced toward the door, Britton, the captain of the Rolvaag , stepped in. He had known she was a woman, but he wasn't expecting either her youth — she couldn't be more than thirty-five — or her stately bearing. She carried herself with a natural dignity. She was dressed in an impeccable uniform: naval blazer, gold buttons, crisp officer's skirt. Small gold

bars were affixed to her graceful shoulders. She came toward them with a measured step that radiated competence and something else — perhaps, he thought, an iron will.

The captain took her seat, and there was a rustle as the rest of the room followed her lead. Britton removed her hat, revealing a tight coil of blond hair, and placed it on a small side table that seemed specially set up for that purpose. As McFarlane looked closer, he noticed her eyes betrayed a look older than her years.

A graying man in an officer's uniform came up to whisper something in the captain's ear. He was tall and thin, with dark eyes set in even darker sockets. Britton nodded and he stepped back, glancing around the table. His easy, fluid movements reminded McFarlane of a large predator.

Britton gestured toward him with an upraised palm. "I'd like to introduce the Rolvaag 's chief mate, Victor Howell."

There were murmured greetings, and the man nodded, then moved away to take his position at the head of a nearby table. Glinn spoke quietly. "May I complete the introductions?"

"Of course," the captain said. She had a clear, clipped voice, with the faintest trace of an accent.

"This is the Lloyd Museum meteorite specialist, Dr. Sam McFarlane."

The captain grasped McFarlane's hand across the table. "Sally Britton," she said, her hand cool and strong. And now McFarlane identified the accent as a Scottish burr. "Welcome aboard, Dr. McFarlane."

"And this is Dr. Rachel Amira, the mathematician on my team," Glinn continued, continuing around the table. "And Eugene Rochefort, chief engineer."

Rochefort glanced up with a nervous little nod, his intelligent, obsessive eyes darting about. He was wearing a blue blazer that might have looked acceptable if it had not been made of polyester that shined under the dining room lights.

His eyes landed on McFarlane's, then darted away again. He seemed ill at ease.

"And this is Dr. Patrick Brambell, the ship's doctor. No stranger to the high seas."

Brambell flashed the table a droll smile and gave a little Japanese bow. He was a devious-looking old fellow with sharp features, fine parallel wrinkles tracing a high brow, thin stooped shoulders, and a head as glabrous as a piece of porcelain.

"You've worked as a ship's doctor before?" Britton inquired politely.

"Never set foot on dry land if I can help it," said Brambell, his voice wry and Irish.

Britton nodded as she slipped her napkin out of its ring, flicked it open, and laid it across her lap. Her movements, her fingers, her conversation all seemed to have an economy of motion, an unconscious efficiency. She was so cool and poised it seemed to McFarlane a defense of some kind. As he picked up his own napkin, he noticed a card, placed in the center of the table in a silver holder, with a printed menu. It read: Consommé Olga, Lamb Vindaloo, Chicken Lyonnaise, Tiramisu. He gave a low whistle.

"The menu not to your liking, Dr. McFarlane?" Britton asked.

"Just the opposite. I was expecting egg salad sandwiches and pistachio ice cream."

"Good dining is a shipboard tradition," said Britton. "Our chief cook, Mr. Singh, is one of the finest chefs afloat. His father cooked for the British admiralty in the days of the Raj."

"Nothing like a good vindaloo to remind you of your mortality," said Brambell.

"First things first," Amira said, rubbing her hands and looking around. "Where's the bar steward? I'm desperate for a cocktail."

"We'll be sharing that bottle," Glinn said, indicating the open bottle of Chateau Margaux that stood beside the floral display.

"Nice wine. But there's nothing like a dry Bombay martini before dinner. Even when dinner's at midnight." Amira laughed.