Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

That turned out to be the understatement of the year; Michael had dived many times before, and was used to the lengthy process of suiting up, but this outdid anything he'd ever been through before. Under Calloway's expert instruction, he and Darryl first put on expedition-weight polypro long underwear, and over that a Po-lartec thermal jumpsuit. On their feet, they wore the U.S. Antarctic program's own issue socks, and Thinsulate nylon shell booties. Darryl, at that point, looked suspiciously like a red-haired elf.

Calloway next handed them each a light purple dry-suit undergarment to haul on over all the underclothes.

“Bit warm in here, eh?” Calloway said, flapping open the front of his flannel shirt.

“You can say that again,” Michael agreed.

“Bit warm in here, eh?” Calloway dutifully repeated.

Michael had had to get used to the sophomoric sense of humor that prevailed at Point Adelie, or, in his experience, at any remote camp where men tended to congregate.

Next up was the dry suit itself, which Calloway held up like a fashion designer showing off his latest creation. “State of the art, mates. TLS Trilaminate. Much lighter than the compressed neo-prene jobs, and it won't retain the surface moisture either.”

It was hard to imagine, as Michael struggled into yet another layer, to believe that it was lighter than anything else. He was already feeling like the Michelin man, and this was before they got to what would surely be the most constricting step of all-the protection of the head and face.

Calloway was digging in a duffel bag Franklin had brought in, then extracting two black Henderson ice caps-full-face hoods that left room only around the eyes and lips; a thin strip of neoprene ran above the mouth aperture. Pulling the balaclava on, Michael felt like a burglar. And over it, he knew, would come the attached latex hood. Calloway had to help him drag the hood over the top of his head, and down to the top of the orange dry suit, where it snapped closed like a suction cup, effectively turning him into a big human sausage in a complete orange casing.

“Can you turn that down?” Darryl said, lifting one bulky arm toward the nearest heater. “I'm dying.”

“No problem, mate, shoulda done it sooner.” He flicked off both heaters. “A few more minutes, and you oughta be out of here,” he said, encouragingly. He helped both men on with their mountaineering glove liners, then their three-fingered rubber dry gloves, followed by their weight harnesses (without being weighted down properly, Michael knew, a diver could bob upside down until he drowned). Finally, he hoisted onto each of their hard-shell backpacks a ScubaPro ninety-five-cubic-foot, steel oxygen tank with twin regulators. Michael could barely move.

“Any last words,” Calloway said, “before the face masks go on?”

“Hurry,” Darryl gasped.

“Remember-no dawdling down there. You've got one hour, maximum.”

He was referring, Michael knew, both to their air supply and to a human being's ability, even under all the gear, to withstand the extreme temperatures.

“The nets and traps are already down?” Darryl asked, as he wrestled his wide rubber fins over his booties and onto his feet.

“Sent ‘em down myself, not two hours ago, tied to the lines from the safety hole. Good luck with the fishing.”

“Before we forget,” Michael said, “I'll need that.”

He gestured at the underwater camera that had been all but forgotten in the heap of discarded clothes.

“Right you are,” Calloway said, retrieving it. “If you see any mermaids, get me a snap.”

With that, their face masks were fitted snugly into place, their regulators tested for oxygen flow, and Darryl got a clap on the back from Calloway. While Michael was stepping into his own fins and attaching the flashlight to his waist belt, Darryl lifted the safety grate away from the dive hole, and he was already gone when Michael turned back around. Calloway gave Michael his own clap on the back, a thumbs-up sign, then he followed suit, feetfirst, down the rabbit hole.

The ice cap there was about eight feet thick, and the auger had cut a hole that was wider at the top than the bottom. It was a lot like sliding down a funnel, and Michael felt his feet break through a thin scrim of icy crystals that had already recongealed since Darryl's dive. He plunged through, surrounded by a cloud of sparkling ice and bubbles, and it took a few seconds for the water to clear enough for him to see.

He was hanging suspended about a dozen feet below the dive hole, in a blue world that seemed as lacking in limits as it did in dimensions. He could see, it seemed, forever, and he knew it was because the waters, particularly at that time of the year, were as free of plankton, or any particulate matter, as any on the globe. The sunlight only dimly illuminated the ice cap, which made the safety hole above stand out like a beacon radiating sunbeams downward. A trio of long lines, with plastic pennants on them, hung down from the lip of the hole and into the unseen depths.

And though he had braced himself for the shock of the icy water, Michael was pleasantly surprised. The gear that had left him feeling unbearably clumsy and hot up top was quite comfortable down below. The water not only made it easier to move, but it cooled the outer layers, and he felt himself positively relieved to be in the Antarctic Sea; no wonder Darryl had ducked in so quickly. But he also suspected that what felt cooling at the moment would be chilling soon, and frigid before the hour was up.

Glancing down, he could see Darryl's fins already propelling him downward toward the benthic regions. Clearly, Hirsch was not about to waste any of the time he had. The waters themselves were undisturbed and almost entirely free of any currents or tides that could, in some seas, stealthily move a diver far from his starting point. It was a great blue quiet kingdom, in which all Michael could hear at first was the intrusive clattering of his own regulator.

The seafloor sloped away from the area where the dive hut had been erected, and Michael began to follow its gradual descent. Glaciers had scoured the bottom, leaving massive striations in their wake, and dropping boulders that had been picked up miles away and strewn there like marbles. As he came closer to the floor, he could begin to see the myriad life-forms that populated even that seemingly barren landscape. The mud bore the telltale spirals and squiggles of mollusks and crustaceans, sea urchins and brittle stars; limpets clung like pale streamers to the algae-covered sides of the rocks, while starfish-some of them heaped atop each other- silently prospected for clams in the ooze. A sea spider, big as Michael's hand with the fingers spread, stood on a pointed pair of its eight legs, aware of his approach. Michael hovered in the water, raised his camera and took several shots. The creature appeared to have almost no body, just a rust-colored head and neck with two pairs of eyes; the segmented posterior sections were so reduced that they melded into the long legs. But Michael knew that the sea spider's proboscis was a deadly device, which it employed to probe the sediment for its sponge and coral prey. Once it had pierced its quarry, the proboscis then sucked up the fluids and flesh of its victims in one long and lethal kiss. As Michael swam by, the sea spider was buffeted by the wave from his fins, and toppled over in slow, underwater motion. As he turned, he could see it indignantly scrambling to its spiky feet again, ready to impale any unfortunate passerby.

Darryl was below, with a net in one hand and his other hand on a rock the size of a basketball. When Michael came closer, Darryl indicated, with a tilt of his head and a gesture, that he wanted Michael to tip the rock over. Michael let the camera dangle from his neck while he used both hands to push the rock first one way, then the other. When it finally rolled over, a swarm of tiny amphipods, the size of a fingernail, their antennae waving and their many legs pumping, scurried out, many of them landing in the net, which Darryl expertly turned inside out before transferring them to a transparent Ziploc bag. Darryl gave Michael a thumbs-up-as much as could be done, given the thickness of the gloves-then waved good-bye and Michael took the hint. Darryl really didn't want any extra commotion around him while he was trying to collect his samples and make his observations.