The Ice Limit

breathing heavily a moment, looking out at nothing in particular. 'Once again, I order that power and communications be restored to my suite.'

There was no sound, no answer. It was clear that no one, not even the lowest officer, intended to obey Lloyd.

Lloyd slowly turned, and his eyes fell square on McFarlane. He spoke in a low voice. 'And you, Sam?'

Another hard gust buffeted the windows. McFarlane, standing in suspension, felt the shudder in the air. The bridge had fallen deathly quiet. He had a decision to make — and he found it one of the easiest decisions of his career.

'I'm working for the rock,' said McFarlane quietly.

Lloyd continued looking at him, his eyes black, adamantine. Then, all at once, he seemed to crumple. The bull-like power seemed to drain out of his massive frame; his shoulders slumped; his face lost its fiery color. He turned, hesitated, then walked slowly off the bridge and disappeared out the door.

After a moment, Glinn bent once again toward the black computer and murmured to his man at the keyboard.

Rolvaag,

1:45 A.M.

CAPTAIN BRITTON stared straight ahead, betraying nothing of her feelings. She tried to measure her breathing, the rhythm of her heart — everything — to the pulse of the ship. Over the past hours, the wind had been picking up steadily, and it moaned and rattled about the ship. It was raining harder now, fat drops that shot out of the fog like bullets. The panteonero was not far away.

She transferred her attention to the spiderwebbed tower that rose out of the ship's tank. It was still well below the level of the bluff, and yet it seemed to be complete. She had no idea what the next step would be. It was uncomfortable, even humiliating, not knowing. She glanced over toward the EES computer and the man operating it. She had thought she knew everyone on board. And yet this man was a stranger who seemed to know a great deal about the operation of a supertanker. She pressed her lips more tightly together.

There were times, of course, when she relinquished command — taking on fuel, say, or when a harbor pilot came aboard. But those were comfortable, familiar patterns of running a ship, established over decades. This was not comfortable: it was a humiliation. Strangers were running the loading process, after lashing the ship to the shore and leaving her a sitting duck three thousand yards from a warship... Once again, she struggled to tuck away the feelings of anger and hurt. After all, her own feelings were not important — not when she thought about what waited for them, out there in the murk.

Anger and hurt... Her eyes flickered to Glinn, standing beside the black console, occasionally whispering words to his operative. He had just humiliated, even crushed, the world's most powerful industrialist, and yet he looked so slender, so ordinary. She continued looking covertly at him. She could understand her anger. But hurt was something else. More than once she had lain awake at night, wondering what went on in his mind, what made him tick. She wondered how a man who was so physically inconsequential — a man she might pass in the street without a second glance — could take up residence in her imagination so vividly. She wondered how he could be so ruthless, so disciplined. Did he really have a plan, or was he simply good at covering up a series of ad hoc reactions to unexpected events? The most dangerous people were those who knew they were always right. And yet Glinn had been always right. He seemed to know everything in advance, he seemed to understand everybody. He certainly had understood her — at least, the professional Sally Britton. Success now depends on a certain subordination of your authority as captain, he had said. She found herself wondering if he really knew how she felt about having her command subordinated, even temporarily, or if he even cared. She wondered why she cared that he cared.

She felt a shudder as pumps came on along both sides of the ship. Jets of seawater blasted through discharge pipes into the sea. The ship began to rise almost imperceptibly as the ballast tanks emptied. Of course: that's how the squat-looking tower would be raised to the level of the meteorite on the bluff. The whole ship would rise to meet it, bringing the platform flush with the rock. Again she felt humiliated at having control of the tanker taken from her, and yet awed at the audacity of the plan.

She remained stiffly at attention, speaking to no one, as the great ship rose in the water. It was a strange feeling, to see the ship going through the traditional, motions of deballasting — lashing the sea suctions, aligning the loading arms, opening the manifold blocks — and yet seeing them as an observer rather than a participant. And to observe it under such circumstances — tethered to shore in the lee of a storm-went against everything she had ever learned in her career.

At last the tower was even with the shed perched on the bluff. She watched Glinn murmur to the console operator. Instantly, the pumps ceased.

A loud crack echoed from the bluff. A cloud of smoke expanded as the metal shed blew apart. The smoke rolled away to merge with the fog, revealing the meteorite, bloodred under the sodium lights. Britton caught her breath. She was aware that all eyes on the bridge had locked on the meteorite. There was a collective gasp.

On the bluff, diesel engines roared into life and a complicated series of pulleys and capstans began to turn. A highpitched squeal sounded; diesel smoke billowed skyward to mingle with fog. Inch by inch, the meteorite began moving toward the reinforced edge of the bluff. Britton watched, transfixed, the flood of emotions inside her temporarily stilled. There was something regal about the meteorite's progress: stately, slow, regular. It crept past the edge onto the platform atop the tower. Then it stopped. Again she felt the whole ship vibrate as the computer- controlled pumps kept the ship trim, emptying precisely enough ballast to compensate for the growing weight of the meteorite.

Britton watched the process in tense silence. The meteorite would creep a little farther onto the platform, then stop, to an answering shudder from the ballast pumps. The jerky ballet continued for twenty minutes. At last, it was finished: the meteorite was centered atop the tower. She felt the Rolvaag's top- heaviness, the destabilization caused by the meteorite's weight; but she could also sense the ballast tanks now refilling with water, the ship sinking back down into the water for stability.

Glinn spoke again to the computer operator. Then, nodding at Britton, he walked out onto the bridge wing nearest the bluff. The bridge remained silent for another minute. Then she felt Chief Mate Howell come up behind her. She did not turn as he leaned toward her ear.

'Captain,' he murmured. 'I want you to know that we — I mean, the officers and myself — aren't happy about this. It isn't right, the way you were treated. We're behind you a hundred percent. You just say the word and...' There was no need to finish the sentence.

Britton remained rigidly at attention. 'I thank you, Mr. Howell,' she replied in a quiet voice. 'But that will be all.'

After a moment, Howell stepped back. Britton took a deep breath. The time for action had passed. Now, they were committed. The meteorite was no longer a land-based problem. It was on the ship. And the only way to get it off was to see the Rolvaag docked safely in New York. Once again she thought of Glinn, of the way he had wooed her into commanding the Rolvaag, how he had known everything about her, how much he had trusted her in customs at Puerto Williams. They had been a good team. She wondered if she had done the right thing in yielding her command to him, however temporary. But then she had had no choice.

Through all these thoughts, Britton stood rigidly at attention.

Outside, there was another sharp cracking sound; a gleaming row of titanium struts flew away from the top rung of the tower with a dozen puffs of smoke. They spun away, coruscating into the fog, dropping lazily out of sight. The meteorite sank onto the next layer of the tower; the whole ship shuddered again; and the ballast pumps rumbled into life. Then there was another round of explosions; another narrow layer of the tower crumpled into itself, and the meteorite sank a few inches closer to the tank.

A part of Britton realized this was an awesome engineering feat; utterly original, perfectly planned, beautifully executed. But another part of her found no pleasure in it. She glanced down the length of the vessel. The fog was getting patchier, and the sleety rain was now blowing horizontally across the windows. Soon the fog would blow away. Then the game would be up. Because Vallenar was not some engineering problem Glinn could solve with a slide rule. And their only bargaining chip lay deep inside the Rolvaag — not in the brig, but in Dr. Brambell's frozen morgue.