Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Charlotte took the chair that Michael had vacated and put the tray on the bed. Eleanor rolled up the billowing sleeve of her dress and watched as Charlotte applied the rubber tourniquet.

“Michael told you about the dangers of touching ice?” Darryl said, as Charlotte filled the syringe, an unusually large one, from the bag.

“Several times.”

“Good. Great,” he said, nervously. “And you might feel a certain flushing at first, from the sudden glycoprotein overload-it's a highly concentrated solution-but I think it should pass pretty quickly.”

Charlotte shot him a glance and swabbed a spot on Eleanor's forearm.

“I am prepared for anything,” Eleanor said. “And I have complete faith in my doctor.”

Which was true. After her initial shock, she had come to respect Dr. Barnes for her bold but friendly nature, and her reassuring bedside manner. That was something Eleanor had seen in Florence Nightingale, too-an ability to reach out to any patient and communicate a sense of calm and caring. Of course, in her own day, no one like Charlotte could ever have become a doctor-even if her sex had not barred her, her color most certainly would have done- but in this modern world that Eleanor might be about to join, many unimagined things were clearly possible.

The prick of the needle was barely noticeable, but the immediate effects of the fluid entering her veins was pronounced. Far from feeling flushed, she experienced a strange cooling sensation, like the trickle of a mountain stream running just beneath her skin. She shivered, and Charlotte looked up at her while still holding the syringe and said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I think so.” But was she? What would happen when the chill, which she could feel creeping up her arm, descended upon her heart?

“What are you feeling?” Darryl asked, and Michael, speechless, simply knelt by the edge of the bed, studying her face.

“It's like nothing I've ever felt before,” Eleanor replied. “A bit, perhaps, like stepping into a cool bath.”

Beads of sweat-a cold sweat-dotted her brow as Charlotte withdrew the needle and hastily swabbed the puncture wound. “Maybe you should lie down,” Charlotte said, dropping the syringe on the tray and helping Eleanor to rest her head back on the pillow.

The room was swimming around her, and she tried closing her eyes, but that only made it worse. Opening them again, she saw Michael hovering above her, and she focused her gaze on his face. He had taken her hand, and she could feel the nervous sweat from his palm dampening her own.

Charlotte and Darryl stood behind him, also looking anxious, and Eleanor was moved that she had already been able to find three such friends in this strange and alien place. It bolstered both her hope and her incentive to live. Perhaps the loneliness that she had felt from the moment that she and Sinclair had absconded from the Barrack Hospital in Turkey might not be her permanent lot, after all. Perhaps there was an alternative. The internal chill had spread across her shoulders and into her breast, like the petals of a night flower blooming beneath her skin. She shivered again, and Michael quickly fetched a blanket from the closet and tucked it around her. She was inevitably reminded of the voyage aboard the Coventry, the ill-fated trip that had ultimately brought her to the Southern Pole, and the night that Sinclair had bundled her in every blanket and coat he could find… before he was attacked by the crew.

Before she, too, was dragged from the bunk and wrapped in a chain on the rolling deck.

A warm compress was placed over her eyes, and as she lay there, she wondered under what circumstances she might emerge- if she emerged at all-from this untried experiment.

Drawing Darryl toward the door, Michael whispered, “What's happening to her? Is there something we should do?”

“I'm not sure there's anything we can do at this point,” Darryl replied. “The injection should take some time-a half hour, maybe an hour? — before fully circulating in her bloodstream and taking effect. We'll know better then.”

Charlotte stepped to the bedside and took her pulse. “It's a bit fast,” she reported, “but strong.” Then she slipped a blood-pressure cuff around Eleanor's upper arm, inflated it, and watched as the LED numbers flashed. Eventually, they settled at 185 over 120, which even Michael knew was too high.

“We'll have to bring that down, if it doesn't come down on its own,” she said, putting the stethoscope to Eleanor's chest and checking her heartbeat. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Light-headed,” Eleanor said.

Charlotte nodded, pursing her lips. “Just try to relax,” she said, removing the blood-pressure cuff. “And rest.”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice already fading, “Dr. Barnes.”

“Call me Charlotte. I think we're on a first-name basis by now, honey.” Slipping a call button under her hand, she said, “If you need me, just press this. I'll be right next door.”

Charlotte took the tray from the bed and herded them all from the room. Michael took one look back and saw Eleanor, the white compress draped across her eyes, her long brown hair brushing the rim of the ivory brooch.

“Come on,” Charlotte murmured. “I'm sure she'll be all right.”

But Michael detected a certain lack of conviction.

“Maybe I should keep watch,” he suggested.

“You've got packing to do. Get to it.”

December 26, 12:45 p.m.

For Michael, packing was easy. All his clothes just went straight from the dresser drawer into the duffel bag, where they were mashed down as compactly as possible. It was the camera gear that took time. He had learned, from bitter experience, that unless every lens and filter and strap went back in its proper case, he might not be able to lay his hand on it when the perfect photo op presented itself. Writing was about deliberation; photography was about serendipity.

All he left out was one tripod and his trusty old Canon S80. He didn't want to leave the base without a few last shots of Ollie, enjoying whatever snack he could bring him from the holiday buffet. And the weather, for a change, was perfectly still-sunny and bright. The calm, Michael knew, before the storm due the next afternoon.

Clearing the top of the dresser, he picked up Danzig's walrus-tooth necklace and slipped it around his own neck. He didn't plan to take it off again until he could hand it to Erik's widow in person.

In Miami.

Where he'd be, with a whole lot of luck, in a couple of days.

He found himself standing stock-still by his bunk, simply contemplating the enormity of everything that lay before him. Everything that had to be done. From inoculating Sinclair, to convincing them both that this was their only way out of Antarctica-sealed in bags, transported on an airplane-a flying machine yet! — over thousands of miles in a matter of hours. And where to? A country where neither of them had ever set foot, in a century they barely knew. There were so many parts of the plan that they would find impossible to believe, he didn't even know where to start. And so many parts that he himself could barely accept-was he truly going to chaperone the two into the modern-day world? — that a kind of mental paralysis threatened to descend. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, he reminded himself. Confronted by so many variables, all he could do was attend to the small things, one at a time.

When the door opened and Darryl came in, he was tucking a camera case into the bulging duffel.

“Any word about Eleanor?” Darryl asked, plunking himself down in the desk chair.

“Not since we left.”

Darryl was eating a mammoth eclair. “You should check out the commons. Lots of leftover Christmas pastry. The hot punch is still going, too.”