Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

The merchant shrugged, raised his hands, and smiled. It was a smile that the comandante had seen countless times before from petty bureaucrats, officials, businessmen. It was a smile that said, I won't know anything, and I won't help you, until I get la mordida, the bribe. It was the same smile he had seen on the faces of the customs officials in Puerto Williams, a week before. And yet today, instead of rage, he felt only a great pity for this man. A man like this wasn't born polluted. He had been corrupted by degrees. It was a symptom of a greater sickness; a sickness that manifested itself all around him.

Sighing deeply, Vallenar came around the desk and perched on the edge closest to the merchant. He smiled at the man, feeling the shaving cream drying on his skin. The merchant nodded his head with a conspiratorial wink. As he did so, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture, laying the other manicured palm on the table.

As quick as a striking snake, the comandante's hand shot forward. With a sharp, digging movement, he sank the twin blades of the razor into the moon end of the merchant's middle fingernail. The man drew in his breath sharply. Terrified eyes stared up at the comandante, who met his gaze with perfect impassivity. Then the comandante gave a brutal tug and the man shrieked as the fingernail was torn away.

Vallenar shook the razor, flicking the bloody nail out the porthole. Then he turned to the mirror and resumed shaving. For a moment, the only sounds in the small cabin were the scrape of the blades against skin and the loud moaning of the merchant. Vallenar noticed, with faint interest, that the razor was leaving an unshaven stripe on his face; a piece of matter must have remained stuck between the blades.

He rinsed the blade again and finished shaving. Then, patting and drying his face, he turned to the merchant. The man had risen to his feet and was standing before the desk, swaying and moaning, and clutching his dripping finger.

Vallenar leaned over the desk, tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket, and gently wrapped it around the man's wounded finger. "Please, sit down," he said.

The merchant sat, whimpering softly, his jowls quivering with fright.

"You will do us both a service if you answer my questions quickly and precisely. Now, did you purchase a device such as I described?"

"Yes, I did," the man said instantly. "I did have an instrument like that, Comandante."

"And who bought it from you?"

"An American artist." He cradled his wounded finger.

"An artist?"

"A sculptor. He wanted to make a modern sculpture out of it to show in New York. It was rusted, useless for anything else."

Vallenar smiled. "An American sculptor. What was his name?"

"He did not give me his name."

Vallenar nodded, still smiling. The man was now so very eager to tell the truth. "Of course not. And now tell me, señor — but I realize I have not asked your name. How inconsiderate of me."

"Tornero, mi Comandante. Rafael Tornero Perea."

"Señor Tornero, tell me, from whom did you purchase the instrument?"

"A mestizo."

Vallenar paused. "A mestizo? What was his name?"

"I am sorry... I do not know."

Vallenar frowned. "You don't know his name? There are very few mestizos left, and fewer still come to Punta Arenas."

"I can't remember, Comandante, truly I can't." The man's eyes grew frantic as he searched his memory in desperation. Sweat trickled from the pomaded brow. "He was not from Punta Arenas, he was from the south. It was a strange name."

Suddenly, a flash came over Vallenar. "Was it Puppup? Juan Puppup?"

"Yes! Thank you, thank you, Comandante, for refreshing my memory. Puppup. That was the name."

"Did he say where he found it?"

"Yes. He said he found it on las Islas de Hornos. I didn't believe him. Why would anything of value be found down there?" The man was babbling urgently now, speaking as if he could not get the words out fast enough. "I thought he was trying to get a better price." His face brightened. "And now, I remember, there was a pick, and a strange-looking hammer, too. "

"A strange-looking hammer?"

"Yes. One end was long and curved. And there was a leather bag of rocks. The American bought all those things, too."

Vallenar leaned eagerly across the desk. "Rocks? Did you look at them?"

"Yes, sir, I certainly did. I looked at them."

"Were they gold?"

"Oh, no. They had no value."

"Ah. And you must be a geologist, of course, to know that they had no value?"

Though Vallenar's tone was mild, the man cringed in the chair. "Comandante, I showed them to Señor Alonso Torres, who owns the rock shop on Calle Colinas. I thought they might be valuable ores. But he said they were worthless. He said I should throw them away."

"And how would he know?"

"He knows, Comandante. He is an expert in rocks and minerals."

Vallenar walked toward the single porthole, limed and rusted from years of salt water. "Did he say what they were?"

"He said they were nothing."

Vallenar turned back to the merchant. "What did they look like?"

"They were just rocks. Ugly rocks."

Vallenar closed his eyes, trying hard to stem the anger rising within him. It would be unseemly to lose his temper, here in front of a guest on his own ship.

"I may have one more in my shop, Comandante."

Vallenar opened his eyes again. "You may? "

"Señor Torres kept one to do further tests. I got it back after the American bought the instrument. For a time, I used it as a paperweight. I, too, hoped it might be valuable, despite what Señor Torres said. Perhaps I can still locate it."

Comandante Vallenar suddenly smiled. He removed the unlit cigar from his mouth, examined the tip, and lit it from a box of wooden matches on his desk. "I should like to purchase this rock you mention."

"You are interested in this rock? It would be my privilege to give it to you. Let us not talk of purchase, Comandante."

Vallenar bowed slightly. "Then I would be pleased to accompany you, señor, to your place of business, to accept this kind gift." Then he took a deep drag on the cigar and, with the greatest of courtesy, ushered the merchant out of the cabin and into the foul central corridor of the Almirante Ramirez .

Rolvaag,

9:35 A.M.

THE DRILL bit was laid out on an examination table, its scorched head resting on a bed of white plastic. A bank of overhead lights bathed the hulk in blue. Sampling instruments were lined up beside it, individually sealed in plastic. McFarlane, dressed in scrubs, fitted a surgical mask into position over his head. The channel was unusually calm. In the windowless lab, it was hard to believe they were on board a ship.

"Scalpel, doctor?" Amira asked, her voice muffled by her mask.

McFarlane shook his head. "Nurse, I think we lost the patient."

Amira clucked in sympathy. Behind her, Eli Glinn watched, arms folded.

McFarlane moved to an electronic stereozoom microscope and swiveled it into position over the table. A highly magnified picture of the drill head flickered into view on a nearby workstation screen: a landscape of Armageddon, fused canyons and melted ridges. "Let's burn one," he said.

"Sure thing, doc," Amira said, sliding a writeable CD into the drive bay of the machine.

McFarlane pulled a swivel chair toward the table, sat down at the microscope, and snugged the twin eyepieces to his head. Slowly, he moved the eyepieces, scanning the crevasses, hoping the drill bit might have removed something, no matter how small, from the surface of the meteorite. But no telltale particles of red gleamed in the lunar landscape, even when he switched to UV light. As he searched, he was aware that Glinn had come forward and was staring at the video screen.