trace.
The snowmobile began to move.
Turning away from the dragon, Harry lay on his left side. He drew his knees toward his chest, kept his head tucked down, and folded his hands under his chin. That was all the protection he could give himself.
Conditions in the trailer were even worse than he had expected — and he had expected them to be nothing short of intolerable. The suspension system was primitive at best, and every irregularity of the icecap was instantly transmitted through the skis and wheels to the cargo bed. He bounced and slid from one side of the narrow space to the other. Even his heavy clothing could not fully cushion him from the cruelest shocks, and the ribs on his right side soon reverberated with soft pain. The wind roared at him from every direction; blasts of frigid air searched busily and relentlessly for a chink in his arctic armor.
Aware that dwelling on his condition would only make it seem much worse, he guided his thoughts into other channels. He closed his eyes and conjured a vivid picture of Rita. But in order not to think of her as she might be — cold, frightened, miserable, injured, or even dead — he cast his mind back in time, back to the day they had first met. The second Friday of May. Nearly nine years ago. In Paris…
He had been attending a four-day conference of scientists who had participate in the previous United Nations Geophysical Year. From all over the world, three hundred men and women of different disciplines had met in Paris for seminars, lectures, and intense discussions paid for by a special UNGY fund.
At three o'clock Friday afternoon, Harry addressed a handful of geophysicists and meteorologists who were interested in his Arctic studies. He spoke for half an hour in a small room off the hotel mezzanine. When he had made his final point, he put away his notes and suggested they switch to a question-and-answer format.
During the second half of the meeting, he was surprised and enchanted by a young and beautiful woman who asked more intelligent, incisive questions than any of the twenty eminent gray heads in the room. She looked as though she might be half Irish and half Italian. Her amber-olive skin seemed to radiate heat. Wide mouth, ripe lips: very Italian. But the Irish was in her mouth too, for she had a curious, lopsided smile that gave her an elfin quality. Her eyes were Irish green, clear — but almond shaped. Long, lustrous auburn hair. In a group that opted for tweeds, sensible spring suits, and plain dresses, she was a standout in tan corduroy jeans and a dark-blue sweater that accentuated her exciting figure. But it was her mind — quick, inquisitive, well-informed, well trained — that most engaged Harry. Later he realized that he'd more than likely snubbed others in the audience by spending so much time with her.
When the meeting broke up, he reached her before she left the room. “I wanted to thank you for making this a more interesting session that nit might otherwise have been, but I don't even know your name.”
She smiled crookedly. “Rita Marzano.”
“Marzano. I thought you looked half Italian, half Irish.”
“Half English, actually.” Her smile developed into a full, lopsided grin. “My father was Italian, but I was raised in London.”
“Marzano… that's familiar. Yes, of course, you've written a book, haven't you? The title…”
“
“Have you read it?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted.
“My British publisher shipped four hundred copies to the convention. They're on sale in the news corner off the lobby.” She glanced at her watch. “I'm scheduled to an autograph session now. If you'd like a signed copy, I won't make you wait in line.”
That night he was unable to put the book down until he turned the last page at three o'clock in the morning. He was fascinated by her methods — her way of ordering facts, her unconventional but logical approaches to problems — because they were startlingly like his own thought processes. He felt almost as though he had been reading his own book.
He slept through the Saturday morning lectures and spent most of the afternoon looking for Rita. He couldn't find her. When he wasn't looking for her, he was thinking about her. As he showered and dressed for the evening's gala affair, he realized he couldn't recall a word spoken in the one lecture to which he had gone.
For the first time in his life, Harry Carpenter had begun to wonder what life was like for a settled man sharing a future with one woman. He was what many women would call “a good catch': five-eleven, a hundred sixty pounds, pleasant-looking if not handsome, with gray eyes and aristocratic features. But he had never wanted to be anyone's catch. He'd always wanted a woman who was his equal, who neither clung nor dominated, a woman with whom he could share his work and hopes and ideas, from whom he could get feedback that interested him. He thought perhaps he had found her.
But he didn't know what to do about it. At thirty-three, with eight years of university education behind him, he had spent far too many hours in academic pursuits and too few learning the rituals of courtship.
The program for the evening included a film study of the major UNGY projects, a banquet, and a floorshow, followed by dancing to a twelve-piece band. Ordinarily, he would have gone only to the film, if that. But there was a good chance that he'd see Rita Marzano at one of the social functions.
She was last in line at the hotel's exhibition hall, where the film was to be shown. She seemed to be alone, and she smiled crookedly when she saw him.
With a candor that he could not control and a blush that he hoped she didn't notice, he said, “I've been looking for you all day.”
“I got bored and went shopping. Do you like my new dress?”
The dress couldn't enhance her beauty, but it complemented all that nature had given her. It was floor- length, long-sleeved, green with beige buttons. Her eyes picked up the shade of the dress while her auburn hair seemed brighter by contrast. The neckline revealed a decolletage uncommon at the dry conferences of scientists, and the clinging, silky fabric vaguely outlined her nipples. With little effort she could have entranced him as quickly as a flute entrances a cobra.
“I like it,” he said, trying not to stare.
“Why were you looking for me all day?”
“Well, of course, the book. I'd like to talk about it if you have a free minute.”
“Minute?”
“Or an hour.”
“Or an evening?”
Damn if he wasn't blushing again. He felt like an Indiana farm boy. “Well…”
She looked along the exhibition-hall line, turned to Harry again, and grinned. “If we skip out on this, we'll have all evening to talk.”
“Aren't you interested in the film?”
“No. Besides, dinner will be awful. The floorshow will be too conventional. And the dance band will be out of tune.”
“Dinner together?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Drinks first at Deux Magots?”
“Marvelous.”
“Laperouse for dinner?”
She frowned. “That's pretty expensive. You needn't take me first class. I'm as happy with beer as with champagne.”
“This is a special occasion. For me if not for you.”
Dinner was perfect. Paris offered no more romantic atmosphere than that in the upstairs room at Laperouse. The low ceiling and the murals on the crack-webbed walls made the restaurant warm and cozy. From their table they had a view of the night-clad city, and below them lay the light-stained, oily river like a storybook giant's discarded black silk scarf. They ate flawless
