Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

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."