The Ice Limit

dirt, and held it up again.

'A belt buckle,' said Amira.

'What?' McFarlane asked. He pushed his way forward, staring.

'It's some kind of purple gemstone, placed in a silver setting,' Amira said. 'But look, it's been melted.'

McFarlane sank back.

Amira looked at him. 'Are you all right?' McFarlane merely passed a gloved hand across his eyes and shook his head. To see that here, of all places... Years ago, after they had scored big with the Atacama tektites, he had had a pair of belt buckles made, each with a sectioned tektite, to celebrate their coup. He'd lost his long ago. But despite everything, Nestor had still been wearing his at his death. It surprised McFarlane how very much that meant to him.

Without speaking, they gathered up the prospector's meager effects. Then Glinn fastened the locker, Amira gathered up the lights, and the two began trudging back. McFarlane remained a moment longer, staring at the cold jumble of rocks. Then he turned to follow.

Punta Arenas,

July 17, 8:00 A.M.

COMANDANTE VALLENAR stood over the tiny metal sink in his cabin, smoking the bitter end of a puro and lathering his face with sandalwood-scented shaving cream. He detested the fragrant shaving cream, just like he detested the razor that lay on the basin: a two-bladed disposable of bright yellow plastic. Typical American throwaway trash. Who else would build such a wasteful thing, two blades when just a single blade would do? But naval stores were capricious, especially for ships that spent most of their time in the far south. He stared at the little disposable in disgust, one of a pack of ten that the quartermaster had issued him that morning. It was either that or a straight razor. And on board ship, straight razors could be dangerous.

He rinsed the blade, then raised it to his left cheekbone. He always started with the left side of his face: he had never been comfortable shaving with his left hand, and this side was easier somehow.

At least the shaving cream hid the smell of the ship. Almirante Ramirez was the oldest destroyer in the fleet, purchased from the U.K. in the fifties. Decades of poor sanitation, vegetable peelings rotting in bilgewater, chemical solvents, faulty sewage disposal, and spilled diesel fuel had suffused the vessel with a stench that nothing short of sinking would eradicate.

The sudden blat of an airhom chased away the noise of crying birds and distant traffic. He glanced through the rusted porthole toward the piers and the city beyond. It was a brilliant day, with crystal skies and a brisk cold wind from the west.

The comandante returned to his shaving. He never liked anchoring in Punta Arenas; it was a poor place for a ship, especially in a westerly wind. He was surrounded, as usual, by fishing boats taking advantage of the destroyer's lee. It was typical South American anarchy; no discipline, no sense of the dignity due a military vessel.

There was a rap on the door. 'Comandante,' came the voice of Timmer, the signal officer.

'Enter,' the comandante said without turning. In the mirror, he could see the door open and Timmer enter with another man in tow: a civilian, well-fed, prosperous, satisfied with himself.

Vallenar ran the blade a few times along his chin. Then he rinsed the blade in the metal basin and turned. 'Thank you, Mr. Timmer,' he said with a smile. 'You may go. If you would be so kind as to post a man outside.'

After Timmer left, Vallenar took a moment to examine the man before him. He stood before the desk, a slight smile on his face, no trace of apprehension. And why should he be afraid? Vallenar thought, without malice. Vallenar was a commander in name only. He had the oldest warship in the fleet, with the worst posting. So who could blame the man who stood here before him now for sticking out his chest ever so slightly, for feeling like a big man who could stare down the powerless comandante of a rusting vessel?

Vallenar took one last, deep drag on the puro, then flicked it out the open porthole. He laid down the razor and pulled a cigar box from a desk drawer with his good hand, offering the box to the stranger. The man glanced at the cigars with disdain and shook his head. Vallenar took one for himself.

'I apologize for the cigars,' the comandante said, replacing the box. 'They are of very poor quality. Here in the navy, you must take what you are given.'

The man smiled condescendingly, staring at his withered right arm. Vallenar eyed the heavy sheen of pomade in the man's hair and the clear polish on his fingernails. 'Sit down, my friend,' he said, placing the cigar in his mouth. 'Forgive me if I continue shaving while we talk.'

The man took a seat in front of the desk, daintily propping one leg over the other.

'I understand you are a dealer in used electronic equipment — watches, computers, photocopiers, that sort of thing.' Vallenar paused while drawing the razor across his upper lip. 'Yes?'

'New and used equipment,' the man said.

'I stand corrected,' Vallenar said. 'About four or five months ago — it would have been in March, I believe — you purchased a certain piece of equipment, a tomographic sounder. It is a tool used by prospectors, a set of long metal rods with a keyboard at its center. Did you not?'

'Mi Comandante, I have a large business. I cannot remember every piece of junk that crosses my door.'

Vallenar turned. 'I did not say it was junk. You said you sell new and used equipment, did you not?'

The merchant shrugged, raised his hands, and smiled. It was a smile that the comandante had seen countless times before from petty bureaucrats, officials, businessmen. It was a smile that said, I won't know anything, and I won't help you, until I get la mordida, the bribe. It was the same smile he had seen on the faces of the customs officials in Puerto Williams, a week before. And yet today, instead of rage, he felt only a great pity for this man. A man like this wasn't born polluted. He had been corrupted by degrees. It was a symptom of a greater sickness; a sickness that manifested itself all around him.

Sighing deeply, Vallenar came around the desk and perched on the edge closest to the merchant. He smiled at the man, feeling the shaving cream drying on his skin. The merchant nodded his head with a conspiratorial wink. As he did so, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture, laying the other manicured palm on the table.

As quick as a striking snake, the comandante's hand shot forward. With a sharp, digging movement, he sank the twin blades of the razor into the moon end of the merchant's middle fingernail. The man drew in his breath sharply. Terrified eyes stared up at the comandante, who met his gaze with perfect impassivity. Then the comandante gave a brutal tug and the man shrieked as the fingernail was torn away.

Vallenar shook the razor, flicking the bloody nail out the porthole. Then he turned to the mirror and resumed shaving. For a moment, the only sounds in the small cabin were the scrape of the blades against skin and the loud moaning of the merchant. Vallenar noticed, with faint interest, that the razor was leaving an unshaven stripe on his face; a piece of matter must have remained stuck between the blades.

He rinsed the blade again and finished shaving. Then, patting and drying his face, he turned to the merchant. The man had risen to his feet and was standing before the desk, swaying and moaning, and clutching his dripping finger.

Vallenar leaned over the desk, tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket, and gently wrapped it around the man's wounded finger. 'Please, sit down,' he said.

The merchant sat, whimpering softly, his jowls quivering with fright.

'You will do us both a service if you answer my questions quickly and precisely. Now, did you purchase a device such as I described?'

'Yes, I did,' the man said instantly. 'I did have an instrument like that, Comandante.'

'And who bought it from you?'

'An American artist.' He cradled his wounded finger.

'An artist?'

'A sculptor. He wanted to make a modern sculpture out of it to show in New York. It was rusted, useless for anything else.'

Vallenar smiled. 'An American sculptor. What was his name?'

'He did not give me his name.'