The Ice Limit

tunnel. Pulling out his pistol, Glinn moved forward carefully, Garza at his side. McFarlane stepped up to the edge of the trench, the tattered remains of the tarp billowing skyward like ghostly linen. Glinn angled the beam of the torch downward, into the tunnel.

Dirt, rocks, and charred wood were scattered everywhere. Part of the cart was twisted and fused, hissing faintly. sending up clouds of steam. Globs of foamy metal, now resolidified, spattered the tunnel. Beneath the cart, several rows of tires had melted together and were now burning, sending up foul clouds of smoke.

Glinn's eyes moved rapidly around the scene, following his torch. 'Was it a bomb?'

'Looks more like a gigantic electrical arc.'

Lights wavered at the far end of the tunnel, then Thompson and Rocco approached beneath them, waving away the pall of smoke. They began spraying fire suppressant on the burning tires.

'See any damage to the meteorite?' Glinn called down.

There was a pause as the men below made a visual inspection. 'Can't see a scratch on it.'

'Thompson,' Glinn said, pointing down into the trench. 'Over there.'

McFarlane followed his arm to a spot beyond the cart. Something was burning fitfully. Nearby, ragged clumps of matter and bone glistened in the flickering light. Thompson shined his torch toward one of them. There was a hand, a piece of what looked like a flayed human shoulder, a twisted length of grayish entrails.

'Christ,' McFarlane groaned.

'Looks like we found Hill,' said Garza.

'Here's his gun,' Thompson said.

Glinn shouted down into the tunnel. 'Thompson, I want you to check the rest of the tunnel system. Report anything you find. Rocco, roust up a med team. Let's get those remains gathered up.'

'Yes, sir.'

Glinn looked back toward Garza. 'Get the perimeter secured. Gather all surveillance data and get it analyzed right away. Call back to the ship for a general alert. I want a new power grid up and running in six hours.'

'All communications with the ship are down,' said Garza. 'We're getting nothing but noise on all channels.'

Glinn turned back toward the tunnel. 'You! Thompson! When you're done here, take a snowcat to the beach. Contact the ship from the landing area. Use Morse if you have to.'

Thompson saluted, then turned and made his way down the tunnel. In a moment he disappeared from view in the smoke and darkness.

Glinn turned to McFarlane. 'Go get Amira and any diagnostic tools you'll need. I'm going to have a team sweep the tunnels. Once the area's secured, and Hill's body is removed, I want you to examine the meteorite. Nothing elaborate for the time being. Just determine what happened here. And don't touch that rock.'

McFarlane looked down. At the base of the cart, Rocco was slipping what looked like a lung onto a folded section of tarp. Above, the meteorite steamed in its wooden bed. He wasn't about to touch it, but he said nothing.

'Rocco,' Glinn called out, pointing to an area just to the rear of the damaged cart, where there was a faint flickering 'You've got another small fire over there.'

Rocco approached it with the extinguisher, then stopped short. He looked up at them. 'I think it's a heart, sir.'

Glinn pursed his lips. 'I see. Extinguish it, Mr. Rocco, and carry on.'

Isla Desolacion,

July 21, 12:05 A.M.

AS MCFARLANE trudged across the staging area toward the row of huts, the wind pressed rudely at his back, as if trying to force him to his knees. Beside him, Rachel stumbled, then recovered.

'Is this storm ever going to end?' she asked.

McFarlane, his mind a whirlwind of speculation, did not reply.

In another minute they were inside the medical hut. He peeled out of his suit. The air was rich with the smell of roasted meat. He saw that Garza was speaking into a radio.

'How long have you had communications?' he asked Glinn.

'Half an hour, or thereabouts. Still spotty, but improving.'

'That's odd. We just tried to contact you from the tunnel and got nothing but radio noise.' McFarlane began to speak again, but fell silent, forcing his mind to work through the weariness.

Garza lowered his radio. 'It's Thompson, from the beach. He says Captain Britton refuses to send anyone over with the equipment until the storm dies down. It's too dangerous.'

'That's not acceptable. Give me that radio.' Glinn spoke rapidly. 'Thompson? Explain to the captain that we've lost communications, the computer network, and the power grid. We need the generator and the equipment, and we need them now. Lives are at risk. If you encounter any more difficulties, let me know and I'll see to it personally. Get Brambell out here, too. I want him to examine Hill's remains.'

Distantly, McFarlane watched Rocco, hands and forearms hidden by heavy rubber gloves, removing charred body parts from a tarp and placing them in a freezer-locker.

'There's something else, sir,' Garza said, listening once again to the radio. 'Palmer Lloyd's in communication with the Rolvaag. He demands to be patched through to Sam McFarlane.'

McFarlane felt himself shocked back into the stream of events. 'It's not exactly the best time, is it?' he said with a disbelieving laugh, looking at Glinn. But the expression on Glinn's face took him by surprise.

'Can you rig up a squawk box?' Glinn asked.

'I'll grab one from the communications hut,' Garza said.

McFarlane spoke to Glinn. 'You're not really going to chitchat with Lloyd, are you? Now, of all times?'

Glinn returned the look. 'It beats the alternative,' he replied.

Only much later did McFarlane realize what Glinn meant.

Within minutes, the hut's transmitter had been jury-rigged with an external speaker. As Garza attached his radio, a wash of static filled the room. It faded into silence, grew louder, then faded again. McFarlane glanced around: at Rachel, huddled near the stove for warmth; at Glinn, pacing in front of the radio; at Rocco, industriously sorting body parts in the back of the room. He had a theory — or the beginnings of one. It was still too raw, too full of holes, to be shared. And yet he knew he had little choice.

There was a squeal of feedback, then a ragged voice emerged from the speaker. 'Hello?' it said. 'Hello?' It was Lloyd, distorted.

Glinn leaned forward. 'This is Eli Glinn, Mr. Lloyd. Can you hear me?'

'Yes! Yes, I can! But you're damned faint, Eli.'

'We're experiencing some kind of radio interference. We'll have to be brief. There's a great deal going on at the moment, and our battery power is limited.'

'Why? What the hell is going on? Why didn't Sam call in for his daily briefing? I couldn't get a straight answer from that bloody captain of yours.'

'There's been an accident. One of our men is dead.'

'Two men, you mean. McFarlane told me about that incident with the meteorite. Damn shame about Rochefort.'

'There's been a new fatality. A man named Hill.'

There was a piercing shriek from the speaker. Then Lloyd's voice returned, even fainter now: ' — happened to him?'

'We don't know yet,' Glinn said. 'McFarlane and Rachel Amira have just returned from examining the meteorite.' He motioned McFarlane toward the speaker.

McFarlane moved forward with great unwillingness. He swallowed. 'Mr. Lloyd,' he began. 'What I'm about to tell you is theoretical, a conclusion based on what I've observed. But I think we were wrong about how Nestor Masangkay died.'

'Wrong?' said Lloyd. 'What do you mean? And what does it have to do with the death of this man Hill?'

'If I'm right, it has everything to do with it. I think both men died because they touched the meteorite.'

For a moment, the hut was silent save for the pop and stutter of the radio.

'Sam, that's absurd,' Lloyd said. 'I touched the meteorite.'