Джон Кэмпбелл - Frozen Hell

“Dr. Armstrong got that same look the first time he tried to analyze the metal.”

“There must be a mistake somewhere,” Jason said, turning to meet his gaze. “The math is wrong.”

“Or we don’t understand how the universe really works.”

Bloch cleared his throat, then proceeded to explain about the object found in glacial ice. “We suspect it to be a 19-million-year-old spaceship,” he said flatly.

“A…spaceship?” Nick started to laugh, but Bloch didn’t seem to be joking.

“This is the second one we’ve found,” the colonel said.

“No shit?”

“Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers. “A research station found the first one in 1938. They accidentally blew it up when they tried to melt the ice with thermite.”

“That was a monumental bit of stupidity. Thermite burns at more than 4,000 degrees.”

Bloch nodded. “It was a different age. They weren’t prepared the way we are.”

“How come word never got out?”

“Hard to prove, when you’ve blown up the evidence.”

True. “Tell me about the metal.”

“We have a team from the Army Corps of Engineers tunneling down to the spaceship. They have been passing through a debris field—it’s mostly rock and dirt thrown up by the crash impact. But they found a few lumps of this super-light metal.”

Jason rifled through the journal pages. “Nick destroyed…let’s see…two of the fragments during testing, when they caught fire in his lab. How many others are there?”

“Four more.”

General Wu broke in, voice tinny over the earphones. “News from the base. The tunnel has entered a larger debris field.” He turned in the front seat and faced Jason for the first time since they had left the Amundsen-Scott Station. “They have made several new discoveries that will interest you.”

Jason leaned forward. “More of this metal?” he asked.

“Much larger pieces, yes.”

“Great.” They needed decent samples. “You have to get one to a lab with a scanning electron microscope, and I need an X-ray fluorescence spectrometer.”

“Yes. I believe Dr. Armstrong ordered one of those X-ray things shortly before his death. It hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Put a rush on it. I need an elemental analysis of the metal. Given the properties, it might even contain exotic matter with negative mass…or something even bigger.” Jason paged back through the journal, looking for a passage he’d read half an hour before. “Nick thought there might be something screwy with it on the molecular level. Some sort of forced bond that shouldn’t occur— can’t occur—in nature.” He looked up. “This is important. If we can replicate this metal, it will change everything in the world, from toasters to airplanes. You have to send it out for analysis immediately.”

There was a sharp click on the audiochannel, and the general faced forward again. Jason could see him talking, but couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the ’copter’s rotors.

Bloch had heard him, though, and shook his head. “Negative. The general doesn’t want word leaking out. See what you can do on site.”

“These notes complain over and over that facilities are inadequate.”

“As I told Dr. Armstrong, make a list. I will get everything you need, if it’s at all possible.”

Sighing, Jason looked down at the papers in his lap. No sense arguing; Bloch and Wu clearly meant to keep the find to themselves for now. He’d survey the lab and make a list of anything that might prove helpful. Who knew, perhaps the army would deliver.

Never mind that what he really needed was a state-of-the-art research lab like they had at Cornell or CalTech. What could he do at the base that Nick hadn’t already done? Jason chewed his lip and looked out the window at the white-white-white land flowing endlessly below. The ’copter cast a long shadow to their right, the only feature in this impossibly bleak landscape.

Slowly the reality of what Bloch had told him sank in. Could the metal be from a spaceship? It seemed incredible. Impossible.

And yet, when he had touched that bubbled, half-melted bit of metal, no other explanation seemed to fit.

An hour later, the ’copter came in low over what Bloch described as their “permanent base.” Jason had only a few seconds’ look at three long, low buildings arranged to form a triangle before the helicopter settled onto a snow-crusted landing pad between them. The sun, its red-gold edge already dipping below the horizon, vanished behind fifteen-foot-tall steel walls, though its glow bathed a giant satellite dish atop one building in spectacular colors.

Bloch touched his arm and pointed toward what looked like an airlock in one building. “Put on your hat and gloves,” he said, voice crackling over the radio. “ We don’t have far to go, but it’s well below zero here. We’ve already had a couple of frostbite cases. Bring the papers, leave your gear. I’ll have it brought to your quarters.”

Jason nodded, took off the headset, and pulled on the goggles, heavy ski mask, insulated gloves, and heavy parka that Milos Pappas had given him back at the Amundsen-Scott Station. The station had a good supply of thermal gear abandoned by former researchers. That, plus three unopened packages of thermal underwear, insulated leggings, and several used-but-clean sweatshirts, now supplemented the cold-weather gear he had brought from home.

General Wu had already climbed out and was striding briskly toward the building. Bloch stepped down, gave Jason a hand to the ground, and led the way toward the door.

The entered a room about the size of an elevator. Here Bloch pulled off his ski mask, and Jason did the same. Next they went through a second door, into a room lined with benches. Hot air gushed in from wall vents. It felt like the blast of heat furnace after the bitter cold outside. Jason’s eyes started to water, and he blinked and rubbed at them. Parkas, ski masks, boots, and other gear had been hung on hooks or stowed on high shelves.

Then the stench hit. A sour mingling of human sweat, old food, body odor, and other smells Jason couldn’t begin to identify.

“God!” he gasped, covering his nose with the ski mask. He took a step back. “What the hell is that—”

“In a day or two, you won’t even notice,” Bloch said flatly. “Living in close confinement, in a sealed environment, there’s little you can do about the smell. It’s far worse on submarines, trust me. At least we vent in a little fresh air here.”

He finished hanging up his gear and waited while Jason did the same. Then he led the way into a corridor barely wide enough for two people to pass each other. Fluorescent light panels glowed overhead, revealing pale gray walls and flooring. There were no windows.

“Grim little place you have here,” Jason observed. No wonder Nick killed himself.

“It’s built for practicality and survival,” Bloch said. “This building houses your lab, as well as our offices, the communications room, the rec room, and the mess hall.” He nodded toward the left. “Sleeping quarters are in the next building over—and yes, everything is connected. You don’t have to go outside. Not that you’d want to, in this weather.”

What have I gotten myself into? Jason thought. I must have been crazy to agree to this.

Block stopped in front of a steel door. Someone had written “LAB” on the wall beside it in black magic marker. He pushed it open, reached inside to thumb a switch, and fluorescent lights began to flicker on.

“Welcome to your new lab,” he said.

Jason went in. It was a tiny room, maybe eight feet square, crammed with a pair of work tables, a battered old laptop, and a jumble of equipment that looked like it came from a salvage yard.