that gear… you don't have any claustrophobia?”

From something in her voice, he suddenly had the thought that she was talking about herself, not him.

“No. Do you?”

She tilted her head to one side, without looking him in the eye, and he thought back to the snow-school night, when they had had to sleep in the hand-carved domes.

“How'd you make it through the igloo training?” he asked.

“Darryl didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That boy can keep a secret,” she said appreciatively. “I never did go inside.”

Michael was puzzled. “Tell me, please, that you did not go back to camp, by yourself.” He was appalled at the thought of such recklessness.

“Nope. I slept in eighteen layers, inside the sleeping bag, with just my feet inside the tunnel. I was afraid if I wedged any more of me in there, Darryl might suffocate inside.”

Once he knew about her phobia, and how she'd toughed it out without ever letting on, he admired her even more.

And Darryl, too, for being able to keep her secret.

“I'll be on the walkie-talkie all day,” Charlotte said, “if you need anything out there.”

He expected no less.

“Now you and Darryl be careful, and watch what you're doing. And don't you let Darryl boss you around too much.”

“I'll tell him you said so.” Then he started piling on all the outdoor gear again and left the infirmary for the dive site.

To get there, he had to board a Spryte-a humble cross between a tractor and a Hummer, which in turn dragged a Nansen sledge weighted down with some of the extra diving equipment. Darryl sat beside him, looking like a kid on his way to Disneyland. Their caravan made slow progress on the ice, and it was about ten minutes before Michael saw the prefab dive hut, built along the lines of a garden shed, sitting out in the middle of nowhere, with a black-and-white flag flying. The hut itself was an improbable pink, like a pale summer rose, and a couple of the base personnel were piling up fresh snow all around its foundation to keep out any wind; its floor actually rested on cinder blocks a foot or so above the ice.

Darryl craned his neck out the side of the Spryte as they approached, and his fingers drummed nervously on his knees. They would have to undress, then suit up for the dive inside the hut, because once you were encased in all the waterproof gear, you would pretty much suffocate from the heat unless you were quickly able to immerse yourself in the ocean; the open water itself, regardless of the depth or season, kept to a fairly steady 33 degrees Fahrenheit.

It looked like Franklin, whose handlebar moustache was all you could see poking out from under the furry hood, who waved them to a halt.

“Nice day for a swim,” he said, jerking open the cranky door of the Spryte. Darryl tumbled out first, slipping on the slick ice, and Michael followed, as Franklin started to off-load some of the gear from the sledge. They went straight into the hut, which felt like walking into a kiln after being outside. Space heaters were mounted on metal brackets, and an impressive rack of gear hung from cluttered racks along all four walls.

But most noticeable was the round hole, maybe six feet in diameter, sitting like a big Jacuzzi in the center of the floor. A steel grid had been placed over its top to prevent any accidental or premature entries, but Michael couldn't help but gaze down into it, into the deep blue water, frazzled with shimmering ice platelets, that awaited him below.

Calloway, a wry fellow with a pronounced Australian accent, said, “G'day mates, I'll be your divemaster for today's activities.” From what Michael had heard from Lawson and others, Calloway wasn't really an Aussie, but had adopted the persona as a ploy to get girls, many years ago, and somewhere along the way had forgotten to give it up. “Now, let's strip down to our skivvies and get started. There's a lot to do.”

That turned out to be the understatement of the year; Michael had dived many times before, and was used to the lengthy process of suiting up, but this outdid anything he'd ever been through before. Under Calloway's expert instruction, he and Darryl first put on expedition-weight polypro long underwear, and over that a Po-lartec thermal jumpsuit. On their feet, they wore the U.S. Antarctic program's own issue socks, and Thinsulate nylon shell booties. Darryl, at that point, looked suspiciously like a red-haired elf.

Calloway next handed them each a light purple dry-suit undergarment to haul on over all the underclothes.

“Bit warm in here, eh?” Calloway said, flapping open the front of his flannel shirt.

“You can say that again,” Michael agreed.

“Bit warm in here, eh?” Calloway dutifully repeated.

Michael had had to get used to the sophomoric sense of humor that prevailed at Point Adelie, or, in his experience, at any remote camp where men tended to congregate.

Next up was the dry suit itself, which Calloway held up like a fashion designer showing off his latest creation. “State of the art, mates. TLS Trilaminate. Much lighter than the compressed neo-prene jobs, and it won't retain the surface moisture either.”

It was hard to imagine, as Michael struggled into yet another layer, to believe that it was lighter than anything else. He was already feeling like the Michelin man, and this was before they got to what would surely be the most constricting step of all-the protection of the head and face.

Calloway was digging in a duffel bag Franklin had brought in, then extracting two black Henderson ice caps- full-face hoods that left room only around the eyes and lips; a thin strip of neoprene ran above the mouth aperture. Pulling the balaclava on, Michael felt like a burglar. And over it, he knew, would come the attached latex hood. Calloway had to help him drag the hood over the top of his head, and down to the top of the orange dry suit, where it snapped closed like a suction cup, effectively turning him into a big human sausage in a complete orange casing.

“Can you turn that down?” Darryl said, lifting one bulky arm toward the nearest heater. “I'm dying.”

“No problem, mate, shoulda done it sooner.” He flicked off both heaters. “A few more minutes, and you oughta be out of here,” he said, encouragingly. He helped both men on with their mountaineering glove liners, then their three-fingered rubber dry gloves, followed by their weight harnesses (without being weighted down properly, Michael knew, a diver could bob upside down until he drowned). Finally, he hoisted onto each of their hard-shell backpacks a ScubaPro ninety-five-cubic-foot, steel oxygen tank with twin regulators. Michael could barely move.

“Any last words,” Calloway said, “before the face masks go on?”

“Hurry,” Darryl gasped.

“Remember-no dawdling down there. You've got one hour, maximum.”

He was referring, Michael knew, both to their air supply and to a human being's ability, even under all the gear, to withstand the extreme temperatures.

“The nets and traps are already down?” Darryl asked, as he wrestled his wide rubber fins over his booties and onto his feet.

“Sent ‘em down myself, not two hours ago, tied to the lines from the safety hole. Good luck with the fishing.”

“Before we forget,” Michael said, “I'll need that.”

He gestured at the underwater camera that had been all but forgotten in the heap of discarded clothes.

“Right you are,” Calloway said, retrieving it. “If you see any mermaids, get me a snap.”

With that, their face masks were fitted snugly into place, their regulators tested for oxygen flow, and Darryl got a clap on the back from Calloway. While Michael was stepping into his own fins and attaching the flashlight to his waist belt, Darryl lifted the safety grate away from the dive hole, and he was already gone when Michael turned back around. Calloway gave Michael his own clap on the back, a thumbs-up sign, then he followed suit, feetfirst, down the rabbit hole.

The ice cap there was about eight feet thick, and the auger had cut a hole that was wider at the top than the bottom. It was a lot like sliding down a funnel, and Michael felt his feet break through a thin scrim of icy crystals that had already recongealed since Darryl's dive. He plunged through, surrounded by a cloud of sparkling ice and

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