The Ice Limit

began to jog toward it.

Lloyd strode over, McFarlane following more slowly. A wrinkled piece of hide lay in the lee of the boulder. Nearby was a scattering of animal bones and two skulls, a rotting halter still wrapped around one of them. A frayed halter rope was tied around the boulder. There were some scattered tin cans, a large piece of canvas, a sodden bedroll, and two broken packsaddles. Something was underneath the canvas. McFarlane felt a sudden chill.

'My God,' said Lloyd. 'These must be your old partner's mules. They starved to death right here, tied to this rock.' He began to reach forward, but McFarlane raised a gloved hand and stayed him. Then, he slowly approached the boulder himself. He leaned over and gently grasped the edge of the frozen piece of canvas. He gave it a shake to clear it of snow, then tossed it aside. But it did not uncover Masangkay's body, only a welter of decaying belongings. He could see old packs of ramen noodles and tin cans of sardines. The tins had burst, spewing pieces of fish across the frozen surface. Nestor always did favor sardines, he thought with a pang.

Suddenly, an old memory came back. It was five years earlier, and several thousand miles to the north. He and Nestor had been crouched in a deep culvert next to a dirt road, their packs stuffed to bursting with the Atacama tektites. Armored trucks passed by just a few feet away, showering the culvert with pebbles. And yet they were giddy with success, slapping each other and chortling. They were ravenous, but did not dare light a fire for fear of being discovered. Masangkay had reached into his pack and, pulling out a tin of sardines, offered it to McFarlane. 'Are you kidding?' McFarlane had whispered. 'That stuff tastes even worse than it smells.'

'That's why I like it,' Masangkay whispered back. 'Amoy ek-ek yung kamay mo!'

McFarlane had given him a blank look. But instead of explaining, Masangkay began to laugh: softly at first, and then more and more violently. Somehow, in the supercharged atmosphere of danger and tension, his laughter was irresistibly infectious. And without knowing why, McFarlane, too, dissolved into silent convulsions of laughter, clutching the precious bags, as the very trucks that hunted them crossed and recrossed overhead.

Then McFarlane was back in the present, crouching in the snow, the frozen tins of food and rags of clothing scattered around his feet. A queer sensation had come over him. It seemed like such a pathetic collection of trash. This was a horrible place to die, all alone. He felt a tickling at the corners of his eyes.

'So where's the meteorite?' he heard Lloyd ask.

'The what?' said Puppup.

'The hole, man, where's the hole Masangkay dug?'

Puppup pointed vaguely into the swirling snow.

'Damn it, take me there!'

McFarlane looked first toward Lloyd, then at Puppup, who was already trotting ahead. He rose and followed them through the falling snow.

Half a mile, and Puppup stopped, pointing. McFarlane took a few steps forward, staring at the scooped-out depression. Its sides were slumped in, and a drift of snow lay at its bottom. Somehow, he had thought the hole would be bigger. He felt Lloyd grip his arm, squeezing it so tightly it was painful even through the layers of wool and down.

'Think of it, Sam,' Lloyd whispered. 'It's right here. Right beneath our feet.' He tore his eyes away from the hole and looked at McFarlane. 'I wish to hell we could see it.'

McFarlane realized that he should be feeling something other than a profound sadness and a creeping, eerie silence. Lloyd slipped off his pack, unfastened the top, and pulled out a thermos and three plastic cups. 'Hot chocolate?'

'Sure.'

Lloyd smiled wistfully. 'That goddamned Eli. He should have supplied a bottle of cognac. Well, at least it's hot.' He unscrewed the cap and poured out the steaming cups. Lloyd held his up, and McFarlane and Puppup followed suit.

'Here's to the Desolation meteorite.' Lloyd's voice sounded small and muffled in the silent snowfall.

'Masangkay,' McFarlane heard himself say, after a brief silence.

'I'm sorry?'

'The Masangkay meteorite.'

'Sam, that's not protocol. You always name the meteorite after the place where —'

The empty feeling inside McFarlane vanished. 'Screw protocol,' he said, lowering his cup. 'He found it, not you. Or me. He died for it.'

Lloyd looked back at him. It's a little too late now for an attack of ethics, his gaze seemed to say. 'We'll talk about this later,' he said evenly. 'Right now, let's drink to it, whatever the hell its name.'

They tapped their plastic cups and drank the hot chocolate down in a single gulp. A gull passed by unseen, its forlorn cry lost in the snow. McFarlane felt the welcome creep of warmth in his gut, and the sudden anger eased. Already the light was beginning to dim, and the borders of their small world were ringed with a graying whiteness. Lloyd retrieved the cups and placed them and the thermos back in his pack. The moment had a certain awkwardness; perhaps, McFarlane thought, all such self-consciously historic moments did.

And there was another reason for awkwardness. They still hadn't found the body. McFarlane found himself afraid to lift his eyes from the ground, for fear of making the discovery; afraid to turn to Puppup and ask where it was.

Lloyd took another long look at the hole before his feet, then glanced at his watch. 'Let's get Puppup to take a picture.'

Dutifully, McFarlane stepped up beside Lloyd as the older man passed his camera to Puppup.

As the shutter clicked, Lloyd stiffened, his eyes focusing in the near distance. 'Look over there,' he said, pointing over Puppup's shoulder toward a dun-colored jumble, up a small rise about a hundred yards from the hole.

They approached it. The skeletal remains lay partially covered in snow, the bones shattered, almost unrecognizable save for a grinning, lopsided jaw. Nearby was a shovel blade, its handle missing. One of the feet was still wearing a rotten boot.

'Masangkay,' Lloyd whispered.

Beside him, McFarlane was silent. They had been through so much together. His former friend, former brother-in-law, reduced now to a cold jumble of broken bones at the bottom of the world. How had he died? Exposure? Freak heart attack? Clearly, it hadn't been starvation: there was plenty of food back at the mules. And what had broken up and scattered the bones? Birds? Animals? The island seemed devoid of life. And Puppup had not even bothered to bury him.

Lloyd swiveled toward Puppup. 'Do you have any idea what killed him?'

Puppup simply sniffed.

'Let me guess. Hanuxa.'

'If you believe the legends, guv,' Puppup said. 'And as I said, I don't.'

Lloyd looked hard at Puppup for a moment. Then he sighed, and gave McFarlane's shoulder a squeeze. 'I'm sorry, Sam,' he said. 'This must be tough for you.'

They stood in silence a moment longer, huddled over the pathetic remains. Then Lloyd stirred. 'Time to get moving,' he said. 'Howell said three P.M. and I'd rather not spend the night on this rock.'

'In a moment,' McFarlane said, still staring down. 'We need to bury him first.'

Lloyd hesitated. McFarlane steeled himself, waiting for the protest. But the big man nodded. 'Of course.'

While Lloyd collected the bone fragments into a small pile, McFarlane hunted up boulders in the deepening snow, prying them loose from the frozen ground with numb fingers. Together, they made a cairn over the remains. Puppup stood back, watching.

'Aren't you going to help?' Lloyd asked.

'Not me. Like I said, I'm a Christian, I am. It says in the Book, let the dead bury the dead.'

'Weren't too Christian to empty his pockets, though, were you?' McFarlane said.

Puppup folded his arms, a silly, guilty-looking smile on his face.

McFarlane went back to work, and within fifteen minutes they were done. He fashioned a rough cross from two sticks and planted it carefully atop the low pile of rocks. Then he stepped back, dusting the snow from his