The Ice Limit

He rose to his feet and sprinted for the access tube, Evans at his heels. He knew that there must be more weight on those jacks than they had guessed in even their most pessimistic assumptions: a lot more weight. Just how much more would determine whether they would get out in time.

He could hear Evans running behind him, feet thudding, grunting with each step. But even before they reached the access tube the first jack gave with a terrifying crack, followed by a second crack, and then a third, as the jacks failed in sequence. There was a pause, then a stuttering series of pops, like a burst of machine gun fire, as the rest of the jacks failed. Instantly, Rochefort was surrounded by blinding sprays of hydraulic fluid. There was a sound like a whirr of a vast sewing machine as the tunnel's struts and braces began to unravel. He ran desperately through the spray, the intense force of the pressurized fluid tearing his coat to ribbons and searing his flesh. He calculated that the probability of survival was dropping fast.

He knew it was exactly zero when the meteorite tipped toward him with a great hollow boom, buckling steel as it came, squirting dirt and mud and ice, looming into his field of vision until all he saw was a shining, inexorable, pitiless red.

Rolvaag,

Noon

WHEN MCFARLANE arrived at the Rolvaag's library, he found a hushed group scattered among the chairs and couches. Shock and discouragement hung in the air. Garza stared, unmoving, out of the wall of windows, across the Franklin Channel toward Isla Deceit. Amira sat in a corner, knees huddled beneath her chin. Britton and First Mate Howell were speaking in low tones. Even the reclusive Dr. Brambell was on hand, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair and glancing impatiently at his watch. Of the major players, only Glinn was absent. As McFarlane took a seat, the library door opened again and the head of EES slipped in, a slim folder beneath one arm. On his heels was John Puppup, his smile and sprightly step out of place among the somber group. McFarlane was not surprised to see him: though Puppup was disinclined to go ashore, while Glinn was on board the Rolvaag the Yaghan seemed perpetually at his side, following him around like a faithful dog.

All eyes turned to Glinn as he stepped into the middle of the room. Privately, McFarlane wondered just how hard the man was taking all this: two of his men, including his chief engineer, dead. But he seemed, as usual, calm, neutral, unaffected.

Glinn's gray eyes flickered over the group. 'Gene Rochefort had been with Effective Engineering Solutions from the beginning. Frank Evans was a relatively new employee, but his death is no less regretted. This is a tragedy for all of us in this room. But I'm not here to eulogize. Neither Gene nor Frank would have wanted that. We made an important discovery, but we made it the hard way. The Desolacion meteorite is a great deal heavier than any of us predicted. Careful analysis of the failure data from the jacks, along with some highly sensitive gravimetric measurements, have given us a new and more accurate estimate of mass. And that mass is twenty-five thousand tons.'

Despite his lingering sense of shock, McFarlane felt himself go cold at these words. He made a quick calculation: that gave it a specific gravity of about 190. One hundred and ninety times denser than water. A cubic foot of it would weigh... Good Lord. Almost six tons.

But two men were dead. Two more men, McFarlane corrected himself, thinking of the pathetic litter of bones that had been his ex-partner.

'Double overage is our policy,' Glinn was saying. 'We planned as if everything would be twice our best estimate-twice the expense, twice the effort — and twice the mass. That means we already planned for a rock that weighed almost this much. So I'm here to tell you that we can proceed on schedule. We still have the means at our disposal to retrieve it, bring it to the ship, and load it into the holding tank.'

It seemed to McFarlane as if, mingled among Glinn's cool tones, there was an odd note: of something almost like triumph.

'Just a minute,' McFarlane said. 'Two men just died. We have a responsibility —'

'You are not responsible,' Glinn interrupted smoothly. 'We are. And we're fully insured.'

'I'm not talking about insurance. I'm talking about two people's lives. Two people were killed trying to move this meteorite.'

'We took every reasonable precaution. The probability of failure was less than one percent. Nothing is free of risk, as you yourself so recently pointed out. And in terms of casualties, we're actually on schedule.'

'On schedule?' McFarlane could hardly believe what he heard. He glanced at Amira, and then at Garza, failing to see in their faces the outrage he felt. 'What the hell does that mean?'

'In any complex engineering situation, no matter how much care is taken, casualties occur. By this stage, we had expected two casualties.'

'Jesus, that's a heartless calculation.'

'On the contrary. When the Golden Gate Bridge was being designed, it was estimated that three dozen men would lose their lives during construction. That was neither coldblooded nor heartless — it was just part of the planning process. What is heartless is bringing people into danger without calculating the risk. Rochefort and Evans knew those risks, and accepted them.' Glinn looked straight at McFarlane, speaking almost in a monotone. 'I assure you, I'm grieving in ways you will never know. But I was hired to retrieve this meteorite, and that's what I intend to do. I can't afford to let personal feelings cloud my judgment or weaken my resolve.'

Suddenly Britton spoke up. McFarlane could see outrage glittering in her eyes. 'Tell me, Mr. Glinn. Just how many others have you calculated need to die before we bring the Desolacion meteorite home?'

For the briefest of moments, Glinn's neutral veneer seemed to slip at this salvo from an unexpected direction. 'None, if I can help it,' he said more coldly. 'We will do everything in our power to prevent anyone from getting hurt or killed. And your implication that I find a certain number of deaths acceptable only shows your ignorance of risk assessment. The point is this: no matter how careful we are, there may be casualties. It's like flying: despite everyone's best efforts, planes crash. You can calculate the probable death rate for any particular flight. But we still continue to fly. That decision to keep flying doesn't make the deaths any more acceptable. Do I make myself understood?'

Britton stared fixedly at Glinn but said nothing further.

Then Glinn's voice suddenly became gentle. 'Your concerns are genuine, and understandable. I appreciate that.' He turned, and his voice hardened slightly. 'But Dr. McFarlane, we can't retrieve this meteorite by half measures.'

McFarlane flushed. 'I don't want anyone else getting hurt. That's not the way I operate.'

'I can't make that promise,' Glinn said. 'You, of all people, know how unique this meteorite is. You can't assign it a value in dollars, and you can't assign it a value in human life. It all boils down to the one question, which I will direct to you as the representative of the Lloyd Museum — do you still want it?'

McFarlane glanced around the room. All eyes had turned toward him. In the silence that followed, he realized he could not bring himself to answer the question.

After a moment, Glinn nodded slowly. 'We'll recover the bodies and give them a heroes' burial when we return to New York.'

Dr. Brambell cleared his throat, and his querulous Irish voice sang out. 'I'm afraid, Mr. Glinn, there won't be anything more to bury than, ah, two boxes of wet dirt.'

Glinn darted Brambell an icy look. 'Do you have anything else of substance to add, Doctor?'

Brambell crossed one green-smocked leg over the other and tented his fingers. 'I can tell you how Dr. Masangkay died.'

There was a sudden hush.

'Go on,' said Glinn finally.

'He was struck by a bolt of lightning.'

McFarlane struggled to absorb this. His old partner, at the very moment of making the discovery of a lifetime