The Ice Limit

could not sleep. Too much had happened for one day: the long string of bizarre discoveries, the deaths of Rochefort and Evans, the reappearance of the destroyer. Having given up on sleep, he found himself roaming the decks of the Rolvaag like a restless apparition.

Now he paused before a stateroom door. His feet, unbidden, had brought him to Amira's cabin. He realized, with surprise, that he wanted her company. Her cynical laugh might be just the bracing tonic he needed. Time spent with her would be mercifully free of chitchat or exhaustive explanations. He wondered if she'd be interested in a cup of coffee in the wardroom, or a game of pool.

He knocked on the door. 'Rachel?'

There was no response. She couldn't be sleeping — Amira claimed she had never gone to bed before 3 A.M. in the last ten years.

He knocked again. The unlatched door eased open under the pressure of his knuckles.

'Rachel? It's Sam.' He stepped inside, curious despite himself; he had never been inside Amira's cabin. Instead of the disarray, the confused riot of sheets and cigar ash and clothes he expected, the place looked fastidiously clean. The sofa and chairs were neatly arranged, the shelves of scientific manuals carefully ordered. For a moment he wondered if she was even living there, until he saw a litter of broken peanut shells, lying in a semicircle underneath the computer table.

He smiled fondly as he stepped toward the table. His eyes strayed to the screen and were arrested by the sight of his own last name.

A two-page document stood in the nearby printer. Snatching the top page, he began to read.

EES CONFIDENTIAL

From: R. Amira

To: E. Glinn

Subject: S. McFarlane

Since the last report, the subject has become increasingly engrossed with the meteorite and its incomprehensibility. He is still ambivelent about the project, and about Lloyd himself, he has also been drawn in, almost against his will, by the problems the meteorite poses. There is little talk between us of anything else — at least, until what happened at the site this morning. I am not sure he is being completely forthright with me, but I'm not comfortable pressing the issue any farther.

After the meteorite was first uncovered, I initiated a conversation about his earlier theory about the existence of interstellar meteorites. While reluctant at first, he soon became enthusiastic, explaining how the theory fits the Desolacion meteorite. However, he felt a need for secrecy and asked me not to share his suspicions with anyone. As you must know from this morning's discussion, his belief in its interstellar nature is, if anything, growing.

There was a closing of a door, the sharp intake of breath. McFarlane turned. Amira stood with her back to the cabin door. She was still dressed for dinner in a knee-length black dress, but she had thrown her parka over her shoulders for the trip to the commissary. She was in the act of pulling a newly purchased bag of peanuts from one of the pockets. She glanced at him, then at the paper in his hand, and became still.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Slowly, as if by its own accord, the bag of peanuts dropped back into the pocket of the parka.

More than anything else, McFarlane felt a bleakness spread through him. It was as if, after all the recent shocks, he could find no more reserves of emotion to draw on.

'Well,' he said finally. 'Looks like I'm not the only Judas on this boat.'

Amira returned his gaze, her face pale. 'You always break into other people's rooms and read their private papers?'

McFarlane smiled coldly. He flipped the paper onto the desk. 'Sorry, but this work is unsatisfactory. `Ambivalent' is misspelled. Eli's not going to paste a star by your name today.' He stepped toward the door that was still blocked by her body. 'Please step aside.'

Amira faltered, dropped her eyes, but she did not step away. 'Wait,' she said.

'I said, step aside.'

She nodded toward the printer. 'Not until you read the rest.'

A flush of rage coursed through him at this, and he raised his hand to brush her aside. Then, mastering himself, he willed his hand back down. 'I've read quite enough, thanks. Now get the hell out of my way.'

'Read the rest. Then you can go.' Amira blinked, licked her lips. She stood her ground.

He held her gaze for a minute, perhaps two. Then he turned, reached for the rest of the report, and read.

As it happens, I agree with him. The evidence is strong, if not irrefutable, that this meteorite came from far beyond the solar system. Sam's theory has been vindicated. Furthermore, I see no evidence of obsession in Sam, or anything else that could pose a threat to the expedition. Just the opposite: the meteorite seems to be awakening the scientist in him. I've seen less of the sarcastic, defensive, and sometimes mercenary side of him that was so evident in the beginning; this has been replaced by a voracious curiosity, a profound desire to understand this bizarre rock.

And so this will be my third, and final, report. I can't in good conscience continue to provide these reports. If I sense problems, I'll report them. I'd do that in any case as a loyal EES employee. The fact is, this meteorite is stranger than any of us could have possibly foreseen. It may even be dangerous. I can't both watch him and work with him. You asked me to be Sam's assistant. And that's just what I plan to be — for his good, my good, and the good of the mission.

McFarlane pulled the chair away from the computer table and eased down into it, the paper crackling in his hand. He felt his anger draining away, leaving a confused welter of feelings.

For what seemed like a long time, neither one spoke. McFarlane could hear the distant rush of water, feel the faint thrumming of the engines. Then he looked up at her.

'It was Eli's idea,' she said. 'You were Lloyd's man, not his. You had a questionable history. And at that first meeting, that thing with the sandwich, you showed yourself to be a bit unpredictable. Unpredictable people make him nervous. So he told me to keep an eye on you. Write regular reports.

McFarlane sat, watching her in silence.

'I didn't like the idea. At first it was being your assistant that really got to me most, though. I just thought the reports would be a pain. But I had no idea — no idea — how hard they would actually be. I felt like a real shit every time I sat down to write one.' She sighed deeply, a catch sounding in her throat. 'These last couple of days... I don't know.' She shook her head. 'And then, writing this one... I just realized I couldn't do it anymore. Not even for him.'

She abruptly fell silent. She dropped her eyes from his face to the carpet. Despite her efforts, he saw her chin tremble. A single tear charted an erratic course down her cheek.

Quickly, McFarlane rose from his chair and came to her. He drew the tear away. She put her hands around his neck and drew him toward her, burying her face in his neck.

'Oh, Sam,' she whispered. 'I'm so sorry.'

'It's all right.'

A second tear began to furrow down her cheek. He bent to brush it away, but she turned her face to meet his and their lips joined instead.

With a soft moan, she pulled him more tightly to her. McFarlane, drawn forward over the sofa, felt the pressure of her breasts against him, felt her calves sliding past his hips. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he felt her hands tease the back of his neck and her thighs lock around him, and he yielded to a flood of passion. He slid his hands beneath her dress and pulled her to him, raising her legs, pressing the palms of his hands against the insides of her knees. He kissed her ardently as her hands traced caressing lines down his back.

'Oh, Sam,' she said again. And then she pressed her mouth to his.

Isla Desolacion,

July 19, 11:30 A.M.

MCFARLANE EYED the towers of black lava that reared before him. The immense fangs were even more impressive close up. Geologically, he recognized them as classic 'volcanic plugs' — the remnants of a twin volcano,