Douglas Preston: The Ice Limit

With McFarlane's patient help, each San Bushman in turn picked up a machine and tested it on the hidden iron nugget. Slowly, the apprehension was replaced by laughter and speculative discussion. Eventually McFarlane raised his hands, and all sat down again, each with his machine in his lap. They were ready to begin the search.

McFarlane took a leather bag from his pocket, opened it, inverted it. A dozen gold Krugerrands fell into his outstretched palm. The ruoru bird began its mournful call again as the last light died from the sky. Slowly and with ceremony, he gave a gold coin to each man in turn. They took them reverently, with paired hands, bowing their heads.

The headman spoke again to McFarlane. Tomorrow, they would move camp and begin the journey into the heart of the Makgadikgadi Pans with the white man's machines. They would look for this big thing the white man wanted. When they found it, they would return. They would tell the white man where it was...

The old man suddenly darted his eyes to the sky in alarm. The others did the same as McFarlane watched, his brow creasing in puzzlement. Then he heard it himself: a faint, rhythmic throbbing. He followed their gaze to the dark horizon. Already the Bushmen were on their feet, birdlike, apprehensive. There was rapid, urgent talk. A cluster of lights, faint but growing brighter, rose in the distant sky. The throbbing sound grew stronger. The pencil-like beam of a spotlight stabbed downward into the scrub.

With a soft cry of alarm, the old man dropped his Krugerrand and disappeared into the darkness. The rest followed suit. Instantly, it seemed, McFarlane was left alone, staring into the still darkness of the brush. He turned wildly as the light grew in intensity. It was coming straight for the camp. And now he could see it was a big Blackhawk helicopter, its rotors tearing up the night air, running lights winking, the oversize spotlight racing across the ground until at last it fixed him in its glare.

McFarlane threw himself into the dust behind a thornbush and lay there, feeling exposed in the brilliant light. Digging a hand into his boot, he pulled out a small pistol. Dust whipped up around him, stinging his eyes as the desert bushes gyrated maniacally. The helicopter slowed, hovered, and descended to an open area at one side of the camp, the backwash blowing a cascade of sparks from the fire. As the chopper settled, a lightbar on its roof lit up, bathing the area in an even harsher glare. The rotors powered down. McFarlane waited, wiping dirt from his face, keeping his eyes on the helicopter's hatch, gun at the ready. Soon it swung open, and a large, solid man stepped out, alone.

McFarlane peered through the thorny scrub. The man was dressed in khaki shorts and a cotton bush shirt, and a Tilley hat sat on his massive shaven head. There was something heavy swinging in one of the shorts' oversize pockets. The man began walking toward McFarlane.

McFarlane slowly rose, keeping the bush between himself and the chopper, training his gun on the man's chest. But the stranger seemed unconcerned. Although he was in shadow, silhouetted by the chopper's takedown lights, McFarlane thought he saw teeth gleaming in a smile. He stopped five paces away. He had to be six foot eight, at least — McFarlane was not sure he had ever seen anybody quite as tall before.

"You're a difficult man to find," the man said.

In the deep, resonant voice McFarlane heard nasal traces of an East Coast accent. "Who the hell are you?" he replied, keeping the gun leveled.

"Introductions are so much more pleasant after the firearms have been put away."

"Take the gun out of your pocket and toss it in the dirt," said McFarlane.

The man chuckled and withdrew the lump: it was not a gun, but a small thermos. "Something to keep out the chill," he said, holding it up. "Care to share it with me?"

McFarlane glanced back at the helicopter, but the only other occupant was the pilot. "It took me a month to gain their trust," he said in a low voice, "and you've just scattered them all to hell and gone. I want to know who you are, and why you're here. And it had better be good."

"It's not good, I'm afraid. Your partner, Nestor Masangkay, is dead."

McFarlane felt a sudden numbness. His gun hand slowly dropped. "Dead?"

The man nodded.

"How?"

"Doing just what you're doing. We don't really know how." He gestured. "Shall we move by the fire? I didn't expect these Kalahari nights to be so nippy."

McFarlane edged toward the remains of the fire, keeping the gun loosely by his side, his mind full of conflicting emotions. He noticed, distantly, that the backwash of the chopper had erased his sand map, exposing the little nugget of iron.

"So what's your connection to Nestor?" he asked.

The man did not answer right away. Instead, he surveyed the scene — the dozen metal detectors scattered willy-nilly by the fleeing San, the gold coins lying in the sand. He bent down and picked up the brown fingernail of iron, hefted it, and then held it up to his eye. Then he glanced up at McFarlane. "Looking for the Okavango meteorite again?"

McFarlane said nothing, but his hand tightened on the gun.

"You knew Masangkay better than anybody. I need you to help me finish his project."

"And just what project was that?" McFarlane asked.

"I'm afraid I've said all I can say about it."

"And I'm afraid I've heard all I want to hear. The only person I help anymore is myself."

"So I've heard."

McFarlane stepped forward quickly, the anger returning. The man raised a pacifying hand. "The least you can do is hear me out."

"I haven't even heard your name, and, frankly, I don't want to. Thanks for bringing me the bad news. Now why don't you get back in your chopper and get the hell out of here."

"Forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm Palmer Lloyd."

McFarlane began to laugh. "Yeah, and I'm Bill Gates."

But the big man wasn't laughing — just smiling. McFarlane looked closer at his face, really studying it for the first time. "Jesus," he breathed.

"You may have heard that I'm building a new museum."

McFarlane shook his head. "Was Nestor working for you?"

"No. But his activities recently came to my attention, and I want to finish what he started."

"Look," said McFarlane, shoving the gun into his waistband. "I'm not interested. Nestor Masangkay and I parted ways a long time ago. But I'm sure you know all about that."

Lloyd smiled and held up the thermos. "Shall we talk about it over a toddy?" Without waiting for an answer, he settled himself by the fire — white man style, with his butt in the dust — unscrewed the cap, and poured out a steaming cup. He offered it to McFarlane, who shook his head impatiently.

"You like hunting meteorites?" Lloyd asked.

"It has its days."

"And you really think you'll find the Okavango?"

"Yes. Until you dropped out of the sky." McFarlane crouched beside him. "I'd love to chitchat with you. But every minute you sit here with that idling chopper, the Bushmen are getting farther away. So I'll say it again. I'm not interested in a job. Not at your museum, not at any museum." He hesitated. "Besides, you can't pay me what I'm going to make on the Okavango."

"And just what might that be?" Lloyd asked, sipping the cup himself.

"A quarter million. At least."

Lloyd nodded "Assuming you find it. Subtract what you owe everyone over the Tornarssuk fiasco, and I imagine you'll probably break even."

McFarlane laughed harshly. "Everyone's entitled to one mistake. I'll have enough left over to get me started on the next rock. There's a lot of meteorites out there. It sure beats a curator's salary."

"I'm not talking about a curatorship."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I'm sure you could make a pretty good guess. I can't talk about particulars until I know you're on board." He sipped at the toddy. "Do this one for your old partner."