The Ice Limit

'Don't get me wrong. I take a purely scientific interest. I'm thinking how one would calculate an equation of state for those rather impressive breasts.'

'An equation of state?'

'It's something we physicists do. It relates all the physical properties of an object — temperature, pressure, density, elasticity —'

'I get the picture.'

'Look,' Amira said, abruptly changing the subject. ''There's another wreck.'

In the bleak winter distance, McFarlane could see the outline of a large ship, its back broken on a rock.

'What is that, four?' Amira asked.

'Five, I think.' As the Rolvaag headed south from Puerto Williams toward Cape Horn, the sightings of giant shipwrecks had grown more frequent. Some were almost as large as the Rolvaag. The area was a veritable graveyard of shipping, and the sight no longer brought any surprise.

Britton had by now rounded the bow and was heading in their direction.

'Here she comes,' said Amira.

As Britton drew up to them, she slowed, jogging in place. Britton's warm-up suit was damp with sleet and rain, and it clung to her body. Equation of state, McFarlane thought to himself.

'I wanted to let you know that, at nine o'clock, I'm going to issue a deck safety-harness order,' she said.

'Why's that?' McFarlane asked.

'A squall is coming.'

'Coming?' Amira said with a bleak laugh. 'It looks like it's already here.'

'As we head out of the lee of Isla Navarino, we're going to be heading into a gale. Nobody will be allowed on deck without a harness.' Britton had answered Amira's question, but she was looking at McFarlane.

'Thanks for the warning,' McFarlane said. Britton nodded to him, then jogged away. In a minute she was gone.

'What is it you have against her?' McFarlane said.

Amira was silent a moment. 'Something about Britton bugs me. She's too perfect.'

'I think that's what they call an air of command.'

'And it seemed so unfair, the whole ship suffering because of her booze problem.'

'It was Glinn's decision,' said McFarlane.

After a moment, Amira sighed and shook her head. 'Yeah, that's vintage Eli, isn't it? You can bet there's an unbroken line of impeccable logic leading up to that decision. He just hasn't told anybody what it is.'

McFarlane shivered under a fresh blast of wind. 'Well, I've had enough sea air to last awhile. Shall we get some breakfast?'

Amira let out a groan. 'You go ahead, I'll wait here awhile longer. Sooner or later, something's bound to come up.'

After breakfast, McFarlane headed to the ship's library, where Glinn had asked to meet him. The library, like everything about the vessel, was large. Windows, streaked with sleet, covered one wall. Beyond and far below, he could see snow driving almost horizontally, whirling into the black water.

The shelves contained a wide assortment of books: nautical texts and treatises, encyclopedias, Reader's Digest condensations, forgotten best-sellers. He browsed through them, waiting for Glinn, feeling unsettled. The closer they got to Isla Desolacion — to the spot where Masangkay died — the more restless he became. They were very close now. Today, they would round the Horn and anchor in the Horn Islands at last.

McFarlane's fingers stopped at the slender volume: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. This was the Edgar Allan Poe title Britton mentioned at dinner that first night at sea. Curious, he took it to the nearest sofa. The dark leather felt slippery as he settled into it and cracked the book. The pleasant smell of buckram and old paper rose to his nostrils.

My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in sea stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in everything, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New-Bank, as it was formerly called.

This was a disappointingly dry beginning, and it was with relief that he saw the door open and Glinn enter. Behind him followed Puppup, ducking and smiling, barely recognizable from the drunk they had brought on board the previous afternoon. His long gray hair was braided back from his forehead, and the neatly groomed but still wispy mustache drooped from his pendulous lip.

'Sorry to have kept you waiting,' Glinn said. 'I've been speaking to Mr. Puppup. He seems content to assist us.' Puppup grinned and shook hands all around again. McFarlane found his hand curiously cool and dry.

'Come to the windows,' Glinn said. McFarlane strolled over and gazed out. Through the torn and roiling mists he could now make out, to the northeast, a barren island rising from the water, little more than the jagged top of a drowned mountain, white surf clawing and leaping at its base.

'That,' murmured Glinn, 'is Isla Barnevelt. '

A distant squall line passed, like the drawing of a curtain from the storm-wracked horizon. Another island came into view: black, rugged, its mountainous heights whirling with snow and fog.

'And that is Isla Deceit. The easternmost of the Cape Horn islands.'

Beyond it, the fresh light exposed another wilderness of drowned mountaintops poking from the sea. As they watched, the light was extinguished as quickly as it had come. Midnight seemed to close around the vessel, and another squall struck them full on, its fury battering the windows, hail rattling off the ship like machine gun fire. McFarlane felt the big ship lean.

Glinn withdrew a folded piece of paper. 'I received this message half an hour ago.' He handed it to McFarlane.

McFarlane unfolded it curiously. It was a brief cable: On no account are you to make landfall on the target island without further instructions from me. Lloyd.

McFarlane handed it back to Glinn, who returned it to his pocket. 'Lloyd's told me nothing about his plans. What do you think it means? And why not simply telephone or e-mail?'

'Because he may not be near a telephone.' Glinn drew himself up. 'The view from the bridge is even nicer. Care to come along?'

Somehow, McFarlane did not think the EES head was interested in the view. He followed. Glinn was correct, however: from the bridge, the fury of the seas was even more awe-inspiring. Angry black waves broke and fought among themselves, and the wind worried at their tops and ran deep runnels through their troughs. As McFarlane watched, the Rolvaag's forecastle nodded downward into a massive sea, then struggled up again, sheets of seawater cascading from its flanks.

Britton turned toward them, her face spectral in the artificial glow. 'I see you've brought the pilot,' she said, glancing a little dubiously toward Puppup. 'Once we round the Horn, we'll see what advice he can give us for the approach.'

At her side, Victor Howell stirred. 'There it is now,' he said. Far ahead of the ship, a break in the storm threw a gleam of light upon a fissured crag, taller and darker than the others, rising from the frantic seas.

'Cabo de Hornos,' said Glinn. 'Cape Horn. But I've come about something else. We should expect a visitor momentarily—'

'Captain!' the third officer interrupted, bent over a screen. 'The Slick 32 is picking up radar. I've got an air contact, approaching from the northeast.'

'Bearing?'

'Zero four zero true, ma'am. Directly for us.'

The air on the bridge grew tense. Victor Howell walked quickly to the third officer and peered over his shoulder at the screen.

'Range and speed?' Britton asked.

'Forty miles, and approaching at about one hundred and seventy knots, ma'am.'

'Reconnaissance aircraft?'

Howell straightened up. 'In this weather?'