have just arrived, and all of you traveled a long way to be here, and at very short notice. Let me assure you, however, that your journey has not been in vain.”
The lights in the hold dimmed, and a digital projector illuminated a large square of the peeling metal bulkhead behind the platform. Weyland stood silhouetted in the light.
“Seven days ago one of my satellites over Antarctica was hunting for mineral deposits when a sudden heat bloom beneath the earth outlined this—”
The square of white light was replaced by a hazy, red-and-yellow-hued satellite image. Outlined in blood red on a background of pale yellow and burnt orange, a pattern of interlocking square shapes was clearly visible.
“This is a thermal image,” Weyland continued, gesturing with his nine iron. “The red lines indicate solid walls. The orange, solid rock. My experts tell me it’s a pyramid. What they can’t agree on is who built it and when….”
Sebastian De Rosa found his interest piqued for the first time since he’d arrived on the ship.
“What caused the heat bloom?” Thomas asked.
“We don’t know. But one expert tells me that this feature is reminiscent of the Aztecs….”
The image behind Weyland shifted angles.
“Another tells me that this is probably Cambodian….”
Yet another satellite image of the pyramid silhouette appeared on the wall over Weyland’s shoulder.
“But everyone agrees that the smooth side is definitively Egyptian.”
Thomas, an acclaimed Egyptologist, nodded in agreement.
“Why would anyone build a pyramid out here?” Miller asked.
“Ancient maps show Antarctica free of ice,” said Thomas, echoing his mentor Sebastian’s theories. “It’s likely that the continent was once habitable.”
Sebastian De Rosa rose and stepped closer to the image on the wall. Weyland’s penetrating blue eyes searched him out.
“Mr. De Rosa?”
“I think your experts are right.”
“Which one?”
Sebastian smiled. “All of them. The Egyptians, the Cambodians and the Aztecs all built pyramids. Three separate cultures that lived thousands of miles apart—”
“With no communication between them,” Thomas added.
“Yet what they built was almost identical.” Sebastian stepped right up to the wall and stared at the projection. “This is clearly a temple complex. A series of pyramids, probably, and there is the ceremonial road connecting them.”
Sebastian De Rosa’s words caused a ripple of excitement on the Beaker side of the room. Pausing for effect, Weyland swung his nine iron with one hand, then rested it on his shoulder.
Oblivious to the growing clamor, Sebastian remained focused on the projected image. “Almost identical,” he said again.
“Meaning what, exactly?” Lex asked.
“This might be the first pyramid ever built,” Sebastian replied.
Miller scratched his head. “Built by whom?”
It was Sebastian De Rosa who replied, in a voice that barely contained his growing excitement. “The master culture from which all others are derived,” he announced.
“If it could be the first pyramid, it could also be the last,” Weyland said. “An amalgam of the ones that came before it. There’s no proof of any connection between the cultures you cited.”
Sebastian shook his finger at the image. “This photo is the proof.”
Weyland smiled at Dr. De Rosa, somewhat condescendingly, Lex felt.
“I can’t tell you who built it,” said Miller, speaking up. “But if I could take a sample from it, I could tell you how old it is.”
“Within how many years, Professor?” Max Stafford asked.
“Actually, it’s Doctor,” Miller replied. “And I’ll give you the exact year… I’m that good.”
“Well,
Lex stared at the image, clearly puzzled. “Where exactly on the ice is this thing?”
“Bouvetoya Island,” Weyland answered, sending a sickening jolt through Lex. “But it’s not on the ice. It’s two thousand feet under it.”
The thermal image of the pyramid disappeared from the wall, to be replaced with a satellite image of what looked like a Montana ghost town in the winter.
“The pyramid is directly below this abandoned whaling station, which will serve as our base camp.”
A babel of voices erupted from all sides.
Weyland pointed his nine iron at the tall roughneck wearing a cowboy hat. “Mr. Quinn.”
The man rose. When Lex spied him she frowned.
“Mr. Stafford, Mr. Weyland,” Quinn began. “You’re looking at the best drilling team in the world. We’ll chew to that depth in seven days.”
“Add three weeks on top of that to train everyone here,” Lex Woods said.
On the podium, Weyland shook his head.
“We don’t have that kind of time. I’m not the only one with a satellite over Antarctica. Others will be here soon, if they’re not here already.”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” said Lex. “No one in this hold is ready for this trip.”
Weyland offered Lex a smile meant to be charming. It reminded her of a hungry shark.
“That’s why I invited you here, Ms. Woods. You’re our expert on snow and ice.”
Lex didn’t like being put on the spot, as was obvious from her expression. But she refused to back down.
“Bouvetoya is one of the most isolated places in the world,” she said. “The nearest land is a thousand miles away. There’s no help for us if we run into trouble.”
Weyland nodded. “You’re right. It’s a no-man’s-land. But the train has left the station. I think I speak for everyone aboard this ship—”
The image behind the billionaire shifted again to show another angle of the mysterious buried pyramid. Weyland pointed to it with his nine iron.
“—This is worth the risk.”
Lex looked around the room. She saw curiosity, interest, and greed etched on the faces all around her. But no fear. Not even the slightest apprehension. And that’s what concerned Lex the most.
The projected image vanished and the lights returned.
“That concludes our briefing, gentlemen—and ladies. Mess call is in ninety minutes. I hope you enjoy it. I had the chef flown in from my hotel in Paris… the filet mignon will be excellent.”
Charles Weyland looked directly at Lex Woods. “Will you be joining us?”
Lex turned her back on the billionaire and strode across the hold.
“Find another guide,” she called over her shoulder.
CHAPTER 6
Charles Weyland began to wheeze in the corridor before he even reached his stateroom. Eyes tearing, he tucked his head into his chest and choked back a cough. If he started now, Weyland doubted he could stop. So he suppressed the urge, but at a cost. He stumbled and nearly fell, the nine iron clattering onto the steel deck.
Then a powerful arm circled his waist, a deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Lean on me.”
“I’m okay, Max,” Weyland rasped.
Steadier now, he pushed Max aside and rose to his full height. “Hand me my club and open the door before anyone sees me like this.”
