“Again, please? Slowly, and with more drama. Look at the camera, not at the clipboard.”
Marshall repeated the sentence. Conti nodded with satisfaction, then turned to the assistant DP. “Get that?”
Toussaint nodded. Conti turned to the soundman in turn. “Got it?”
“Got it, chief.”
“Wait a minute,” Marshall said. “I didn’t say that. Those are your words.”
Conti spread his hands. “They’re good words.”
Marshall lost his patience. “You’re not interested in scientific accuracy here. You’re not interested in accuracy, period. You just want a good show.”
“That’s what I’m being paid for, Doctor. Now, let’s talk about you.” Conti glanced down at his clipboard again. “I had my researchers do a little digging into the members of this expedition. Your story is particularly interesting, Dr. Marshall. You were a decorated officer. You won the Silver Star. Yet you left the army with a dishonorable discharge. Is this true?”
“If it is, you could hardly expect me to want to talk about it, could you?”
“Let’s try again.” Conti pressed his hands together. “ Northern Massachusetts University is-how shall I put it?- not known for the quality of its academics. How does somebody like you end up a scientist-especially at a place like that?”
Marshall didn’t answer.
“You qualified as a sharpshooter. So why is it you’re the only member of your expedition who refuses to carry a rifle for protection?”
Abruptly, Marshall stood up. “You know what? Go find yourself another poster boy. I don’t think I’m going to answer any more questions.”
When Conti opened his mouth to speak, Marshall stepped closer. “And if you try to ask any, I’ll knock your annoying little ass across this lab table.”
There was a strained silence. Conti looked at him-the same appraising look he’d given him just before Wolff produced the contract. After a long moment, he spoke. “Let me explain something to you, Dr. Marshall. I am a powerful man-and not just in New York and Hollywood. If you decide to make an enemy of me, you’ll be making a rather large mistake.” He wiped the scrawl off the clipboard with the palm of his hand, then turned to Toussaint. “See if you can track down Dr. Sully. Something tells me that we’ll find him more cooperative.”
11
Later that night, Marshall found himself walking through the equipment-crowded corridors of B Level. In his lab and his quarters, he’d felt preoccupied and distracted-feelings not helped by the raucous conversations and clatter of passing gear. Knowing that, as usual, he’d find sleep difficult, he headed toward the surface to take the nightly walk that had become something of a habit with him.
He climbed the stairs and walked into the entrance foyer, his steps ringing on the metal-and-linoleum floor. The MP post was manned, as he knew it would be: since the documentary contingent had arrived, Sergeant Gonzalez had kept it staffed day and night, despite all the other demands on the soldiers’ time. But to Marshall ’s surprise the sentry station was manned by Gonzalez himself.
The sergeant nodded to him as he came up. Despite being well into his fifties, the man radiated a feeling of almost inexhaustible strength. “Doctor,” he said. “Going on your evening constitutional?”
“That’s right,” Marshall said. He felt a faint surprise: he didn’t know Gonzalez kept track of his movements. “Sleep’s a little hard to come by.”
“I’m not surprised-what with that frat party going on down there.” Gonzalez frowned. His bullet-shaped head seemed attached directly to his shoulders, and as he shook it in disapproval, heavy bulges appeared at the nape.
Marshall laughed. “They are a little noisy.”
Gonzalez scoffed. “Beg pardon, Doctor, but the noise is the least of it. There are just too damn many of them. We weren’t expecting half this many, and it’s putting my base under strain. The physical plant’s old, it’s been maintained only for light use. And this is hell and gone from light use. There are only four of us, we can’t nursemaid all of them. This afternoon Marcelin found one of them wandering out of bounds, in the military operations sector.” The frown deepened. “I’m half tempted to file a formal complaint.”
“Things should ease up soon. I think a dozen or so are leaving tomorrow.” He’d heard that once the bulk of the setup was complete, the roustabouts would be heading back south.
Gonzalez grunted. “Won’t be soon enough for me.”
Marshall glanced speculatively at him.
Waving to Gonzalez, he headed toward the main entrance. The large external thermometer in the weather chamber displayed minus five degrees Fahrenheit. Opening his locker, he donned his parka, balaclava, snow boots, and gloves. Then he stepped through the staging area and pushed the outer doors open into the night.
The apron of concrete outside the base lay still beneath a vast dome of stars. He paused a moment, acclimating himself to the sharp chill of the air. Then he set off into the night, gloved hands in pockets, careful not to trip over the power cables that snaked underfoot. The wind had died away completely, and a gibbous moon lent a spectral blue light to the landscape. With the entire documentary staff currently inside Fear Base, the prefab huts and storage sheds were preternaturally silent. Everything seemed to be asleep. The only noise came from the powerhouse, which grumbled under the strain of supplying the power-hungry new inhabitants.
He paused at the perimeter fence, glancing carefully left and right. Since they had first arrived, there had been at least half a dozen polar bear sightings, but tonight no dark shapes could be seen prowling the endless permafrost or ugly coilings of ancient lava. Pulling his hood more tightly around his face, he walked past the empty guard post, letting his feet find their own path.
Soon he was climbing the steep valley toward the glacier, his breath streaming behind in great clouds. As he warmed to the work, his stride lengthened and his arms swung easily at his sides. A good dose of exercise, and just maybe he’d be able to sleep through all the noise the film crew generated.
In fifteen minutes, the slope lessened slightly. The hulking machinery had been repositioned and he had an unobstructed view of the glacier’s tongue, a deep blue wall of ice that seemed to glow in the moonlight with inner fire. And there, in its shadow, was the small black hole of the ice cave…
He stopped. There were figures standing at the mouth of the cave. Three of them, shadows within shadows.
More slowly, he approached. The three were talking: he could hear the muffled sounds of conversation. They turned at the crunch of his footsteps and to his surprise he recognized the other scientists: Sully, Faraday, Penny Barbour. The only team member missing was Ang, the graduate student. It was as if they had converged here- with a single mind-at the site of the discovery.
Sully nodded as Marshall joined them. “Nice night for a walk,” he said. One of the expedition’s hunting rifles was slung over his shoulder.
“Beats the madness back at the base,” Marshall replied.
If he’d expected the ever-politic Sully to protest at this, he was mistaken. The climatologist made a sour face. “They were filming some sequence in the tactical center, next door to my lab. Posing as us, if you can believe it. Must have done at least a dozen takes. Couldn’t hear myself think.”
“Speaking of films, how did your interview go?” Marshall asked.
The sour face deepened. “Conti stopped in mid-take. The soundman was complaining, saying-get this-that I was swallowing my words.”
Marshall nodded.
Sully turned to Barbour. “I don’t swallow my words, do I?”
