“A… carved… wooden… figurehead?”
“Attached to a bowsprit.” Michael was momentarily impressed at his own ingenuity. “Quite old, and very beautiful, but not a woman. Or a man, either-he just turned out to be some more wood-though nicely painted-in the ice behind her. They must have been part of some shipwreck.” He could embellish it further, but he didn't want Gillespie to get too excited about shots of the figurehead, because then he'd have to find a way to manufacture some. “I just can't tell you, Joe, how embarrassed I am.”
“Embarrassed?” Michael heard, faintly. “That's all? You're embarrassed? I was planning to make you the poster boy for Eco-Travel Magazine. I was planning to shell out real money to hire a PR firm, just to plaster your face all over the media.”
Michael knew that with every syllable he'd just uttered, his chances of making news-winning awards, getting famous, maybe even getting rich-had withered, and vanished into the thinnest of air. “But I've got some other great stuff-an abandoned whaling station, the last dogsled team in the Antarctic, a big storm rounding the Horn. Tons of material.”
“That's great, Michael, just great. We'll talk more as soon as you get back here, after the first of the year. You can show me what you've got then.”
“You bet,” Michael said, still silently assessing what he had done to his career. He had taken what could have been a career-making moment, and torched it.
“And you're feeling okay?”
“Absolutely,” Michael replied.
“And the situation with Kristin? Has that changed at all?”
He could see what was going through Gillespie's mind-he thought that Michael had begun to come a little unhinged over the lingering tragedy. And, much as he hated to exploit something like that, Michael did see an opportunity.
“Kristin passed away,” he said.
“Oh jeez. You should have said something sooner.”
“So between that, and the weird conditions down here, maybe yeah, I have been a little out of whack.” He made sure his tone implied that that was definitely the case.
“Listen, I'm really sorry about Kristin.”
“Thanks.”
“But at least her ordeal is over. And yours, too.”
“I guess.”
“Just take it easy-don't overextend yourself-and we'll talk again, maybe in a day or two.”
“Sure.”
“And Michael-in the meantime, why don't you check in with the doctor on the base? Have him make sure-”
“Her. It's a woman.”
“Okay-have her look you over. Can't hurt.”
“Will do.” Michael waved the phone in the air, then rubbed his sleeve against it to create some more static. Whatever bromides Gillespie was offering next, he didn't hear. Michael mumbled a good-bye into the receiver, hung up, then sat with his hands hanging down between his knees. He still wasn't sure, but he suspected that he'd just done the dumbest thing in his life. He'd always operated on instinct-picking which route to take up a cliff face, which fork in the rapids to run, which cave to explore-and just now he'd gone with his instincts again. And he wasn't even sure why. All he did know was that something inside him had rebelled-recoiled, even-at the thought of delivering Eleanor. To Joe Gillespie. To the world. Sure, what he'd done was a lie, but anything else would have felt like a betrayal.
Michael, he said to himself, you have well and truly fucked yourself.
He trudged alone to the commons, where he grabbed a sandwich and a couple of beers. Sam Adams Lagers, which only served to remind him of the flyers that Ackerley had written his last notes on. Uncle Barney had laid out a tray of Christmas cookies-gingerbread men decorated with pink icing-and Michael had a couple of those, too. But the Christmas spirit, which ought to have been easy to come by in a snowy landscape like the Pole, wasn't anywhere around. Yeah, they'd all sung Danzig's favorite songs at his memorial service, but he hadn't heard a lot of singing since. A kind of pall still hung over everything and everyone at the Point.
He thought about stopping off at the infirmary on the way back to his dorm, but kept on going instead; he had no heart to face Eleanor just then, much less to lie to her about Sinclair, as he had been enjoined to do. He had some serious soul-searching to do-especially since he had derailed things with Gillespie. He just needed to be alone with his thoughts.
That was getting to be a constant refrain for him.
What had started as a fleeting question, in the back of his mind, was becoming something more than that, something that his mind kept returning to. What was going to happen to Eleanor? She couldn't stay at Point Adelie forever, that was for certain. But how, and under what circumstances, could she leave? Did Murphy have some secret plan of his own? As far as Michael could see, she was going to require a friend, no matter what-someone she knew and trusted, to usher her into the modern-day world. And he also realized that, without any conscious deliberation, he had cast himself in that role.
In the communal bathroom, he took a long look at his own weary face in the mirror, and decided to shave. Why not shave before bed? At the South Pole, everything else was upside down.
But it wasn't just Eleanor-there was Sinclair to consider. The two of them would want to be together. And what role would he serve then? He'd wind up as a kind of chaperone, shepherding the two lovers back into a brave, new, and bewildering world.
His beard was so rough the razor kept snagging, and drops of blood appeared on his cheek and chin.
If he was honest with himself, what other scenario had he been imagining? Brewing inside him, he knew, were feelings that did not bear close scrutiny. He was a photojournalist, for Christ's sake, there on an assignment- that was it, and that was what he needed to focus on. The rest was just noise in his head.
He wiped some steam away from the mirror. His gaze was wide but dull-was he skirting the edge of the Big Eye? — and he needed a barber, too. His black hair was thick and unruly and curling over his ears. A couple of guys were yakking in the sauna behind him- from their voices he thought it might be Lawson and Franklin. He splashed some cold water on the spots where he'd cut himself, then took a quick shower and went back to his room.
Once there, he pulled the blinds down tight-he never thought he could hate the sun, but he did at that moment-and got into a fresh T-shirt and boxer shorts. He hoisted himself into his bunk and tried to straighten out the bedclothes; Darryl, he had noted, made his bed every day, but Michael saw no reason to do something at Point Adelie that he never bothered to do at home. He tugged the sheet up to keep the scratchy blanket off his legs, then yanked the bed curtains closed on all sides. Lying back in the narrow confines of the bunk, with the foam-rubber pillow wedged under his head, he stared up into the blackness.
His hair was still wet in back, and he lifted his head for a second to rub it dry. His eyes closed, and he took a long breath to relax himself. Then he took another, slow and deliberate. But his thoughts were still teeming. He pictured Sinclair on the cot set up in the old meat locker-the condiments box had been moved to make way- with a battery of space heaters running and Charlotte tending to his wound. She had needed to put in six stitches. Franklin and Lawson were assigned to keep watch in eight-hour shifts. Michael had volunteered to share the job, but Murphy had said, “Technically, you're still a civilian. Let's try to keep it that way.”
His mattress sagged in the middle, and Michael inched over toward the wall. Regardless of what Murphy thought, someone would eventually have to tell Eleanor about Sinclair. But how would she react? It should have been a simple question, but Michael wasn't so sure that it was. She'd be relieved, of course. Delighted? Probably. Passionate? Would she insist on going to him at once? Michael didn't know if it was wishful thinking, or some deeper insight, but he suspected that there was something in Eleanor that feared Sinclair. From what she had told him of their story-as fantastical a tale as any that he'd ever heard-Sinclair had taken her on a wild and dangerous odyssey… an odyssey that was still unfolding.
But as much as she might love him, was she still as dedicated to that journey as she had been at the start?
He pictured the brooch she wore. Venus, rising from the sea foam. It was appropriate, wasn't it? Eleanor had risen from the sea. And she was beautiful. Immediately, he felt disloyal even to have entertained such a thought-
