"Why is that?"
"He's a man who might do anything."
Glinn paused a moment, looking out across the channel at the destroyer. It hung there, motionless, dark. "There's something else I must ask you," he said, his eyes still on the warship. "That merchant in Punta Arenas, the one you sold the prospector's equipment to. Would he remember you? Would he be able to identify you, if asked?"
Puppup seemed to think for a minute. "Can't say," he answered at last. "It was a big shop. Then again, there aren't many Yaghan Indians in Punta Arenas. And we had quite a bargaining session."
"I see," said Glinn. "Thank you, John. You've been very helpful."
"Speak nothing of it, guv'nor," said Puppup. He looked sidelong at Glinn, eyes sparkling with shrewdness and amusement.
Glinn thought quickly. Sometimes it was best to confess a lie immediately. If done properly, it could breed a perverse kind of trust.
"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you," he said. "I know a lot about Captain Fitzroy. But he isn't actually my ancestor."
Puppup cackled unpleasantly. "Of course not. No more than Fuegia Basket was mine."
A gust of bitter Wind tore at Glinn's collar. He glanced over at Puppup. "How did you get the ring then?"
"With us Yaghans, so many died that the last one left inherited the lot. That's how I got the bonnet and the ring, and just about everything else." Puppup continued gazing at Glinn in a bemused way.
"What happened to it all?"
"Sold most of it. Drank the proceeds."
Glinn, startled again at the directness of the response, realized he hadn't even begun to understand the Yaghan. "When this is over," the old man added, "you'll have to take me with you, wherever you're going. I can't go back home again."
"Why not?" But even as he asked the question, Glinn realized he already knew the answer.
37: Rolvaag
11:20 P.M.
MCFARLANE WALKED down the blue-carpeted corridor of the lower bridge deck. He was bone tired, yet he could not sleep. Too much had happened for one day: the long string of bizarre discoveries, the deaths of Rochefort and Evans, the reappearance of the destroyer. Having given up on sleep, he found himself roaming the decks of the Rolvaag like a restless apparition.
Now he paused before a stateroom door. His feet, unbidden, had brought him to Amira's cabin. He realized, with surprise, that he wanted her company. Her cynical laugh might be just the bracing tonic he needed. Time spent with her would be mercifully free of chitchat or exhaustive explanations. He wondered if she'd be interested in a cup of coffee in the wardroom, or a game of pool.
He knocked on the door. "Rachel?"
There was no response. She couldn't be sleeping—Amira claimed she had never gone to bed before 3 A.M. in the last ten years.
He knocked again. The unlatched door eased open under the pressure of his knuckles.
"Rachel? It's Sam." He stepped inside, curious despite himself; he had never been inside Amira's cabin. Instead of the disarray, the confused riot of sheets and cigar ash and clothes he expected, the place looked fastidiously clean. The sofa and chairs were neatly arranged, the shelves of scientific manuals carefully ordered. For a moment he wondered if she was even living there, until he saw a litter of broken peanut shells, lying in a semicircle underneath the computer table.
He smiled fondly as he stepped toward the table. His eyes strayed to the screen and were arrested by the sight of his own last name.
A two-page document stood in the nearby printer. Snatching the top page, he began to read.
EES CONFIDENTIAL
From: R. Amira
To: E. Glinn
Subject: S. McFarlane
Since the last report, the subject has become increasingly engrossed with the meteorite and its incomprehensibility. He is still ambivelent about the project, and about Lloyd himself, he has also been drawn in, almost against his will, by the problems the meteorite poses. There is little talk between us of anything else—at least, until what happened at the site this morning. I am not sure he is being completely forthright with me, but I'm not comfortable pressing the issue any farther.
After the meteorite was first uncovered, I initiated a conversation about his earlier theory about the existence of interstellar meteorites. While reluctant at first, he soon became enthusiastic, explaining how the theory fits the Desolación meteorite. However, he felt a need for secrecy and asked me not to share his suspicions with anyone. As you must know from this morning's discussion, his belief in its interstellar nature is, if anything, growing.
There was a closing of a door, the sharp intake of breath. McFarlane turned. Amira stood with her back to the cabin door. She was still dressed for dinner in a knee-length black dress, but she had thrown her parka over her shoulders for the trip to the commissary. She was in the act of pulling a newly purchased bag of peanuts from one of the pockets. She glanced at him, then at the paper in his hand, and became still.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Slowly, as if by its own accord, the bag of peanuts dropped back into the pocket of the parka.
More than anything else, McFarlane felt a bleakness spread through him. It was as if, after all the recent shocks, he could find no more reserves of emotion to draw on.
"Well," he said finally. "Looks like I'm not the only Judas on this boat."
Amira returned his gaze, her face pale. "You always break into other people's rooms and read their private papers?"
McFarlane smiled coldly. He flipped the paper onto the desk. "Sorry, but this work is unsatisfactory. 'Ambivalent' is misspelled. Eli's not going to paste a star by your name today." He stepped toward the door that was still blocked by her body. "Please step aside."
Amira faltered, dropped her eyes, but she did not step away. "Wait," she said.
"I said, step aside."
She nodded toward the printer. "Not until you read the rest."
A flush of rage coursed through him at this, and he raised his hand to brush her aside. Then, mastering himself, he willed his hand back down. "I've read quite enough, thanks. Now get the hell out of my way."
"Read the rest. Then you can go." Amira blinked, licked her lips. She stood her ground.
He held her gaze for a minute, perhaps two. Then he turned, reached for the rest of the report, and read.
As it happens, I agree with him. The evidence is strong, if not irrefutable, that this meteorite came from far beyond the solar system. Sam's theory has been vindicated. Furthermore, I see no evidence of obsession in Sam, or anything else that could pose a threat to the expedition. Just the opposite: the meteorite seems to be awakening the scientist in him. I've seen less of the sarcastic, defensive, and sometimes mercenary side of him that was so evident in the beginning; this has been replaced by a voracious curiosity, a profound desire to understand this bizarre rock.
And so this will be my third, and final, report. I can't in good conscience continue to provide these reports. If I sense problems, I'll report them. I'd do that in any case as a loyal EES employee. The fact is, this meteorite is stranger than any of us could have possibly foreseen. It may even be dangerous. I can't both watch him and work with him. You asked me to be Sam's assistant. And that's just what I plan to be—for his good, my good, and the good of the mission.
McFarlane pulled the chair away from the computer table and eased down into it, the paper crackling in his hand. He felt his anger draining away, leaving a confused welter of feelings.
For what seemed like a long time, neither one spoke. McFarlane could hear the distant rush of water, feel the faint thrumming of the engines. Then he looked up at her.
"It was Eli's idea," she said. "You were Lloyd's man, not his. You had a questionable history. And at that first meeting, that thing with the sandwich, you showed yourself to be a bit unpredictable. Unpredictable people make him nervous. So he told me to keep an eye on you. Write regular reports.
McFarlane sat, watching her in silence.
"I didn't like the idea. At first it was being your assistant that really got to me most, though. I just thought the reports would be a pain. But I had no idea—no idea—how hard they would actually be. I felt like a real shit every time I sat down to write one." She sighed deeply, a catch sounding in her throat. "These last couple of days... I don't know." She shook her head. "And then, writing this one... I just realized I couldn't do it anymore. Not even for him."
She abruptly fell silent. She dropped her eyes from his face to the carpet. Despite her efforts, he saw her chin tremble. A single tear charted an erratic course down her cheek.
Quickly, McFarlane rose from his chair and came to her. He drew the tear away. She put her hands around his neck and drew him toward her, burying her face in his neck.
"Oh, Sam," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"It's all right."
A second tear began to furrow down her cheek. He bent to brush it away, but she turned her face to meet his and their lips joined instead.
With a soft moan, she pulled him more tightly to her. McFarlane, drawn forward over the sofa, felt the pressure of her breasts against him, felt her calves sliding past his hips. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he felt her hands tease the back of his neck and her thighs lock around him, and he yielded to a flood of passion. He slid his hands beneath her dress and pulled her to him, raising her legs, pressing the palms of his hands against the insides of her knees. He kissed her ardently as her hands traced caressing lines down his back.
"Oh, Sam," she said again. And then she pressed her mouth to his.
38: Isla Desolación
July 19, 11:30 A.M.
MCFARLANE EYED the towers of black lava that reared before him. The immense fangs were even more impressive close up. Geologically, he recognized them as classic "volcanic plugs"—the remnants of a twin volcano, in which the slopes had eroded away, leaving behind the two basalt-filled throats.
He turned around, glancing over his shoulder. Several miles behind and far below them, the landing area was a sprinkling of black dots on a white landscape, threadlike roads leading away across the island. In the wake of Rochefort's and Evans's deaths, recovery work had resumed immediately. It was being directed by Garza and the second engineer, Stonecipher, a humorless man who seemed to have inherited Rochefort's personality along with his duties.
Rachel Amira came up beside him, her breath frosty. She gazed up at the peaks, frowning. "How far do we have to go?"
"I want to reach that stripe of darker material about halfway up. That's probably a remnant of the last eruption, so we'd want to use that to date the flow."
"No problem," she said, rattling her gear with a show of bravado.
She had been in high spirits since meeting up for the climb, speaking little but humming and whistling to herself. McFarlane, on the other hand, felt restless, impatient.
His eyes traveled up the possible routes, looking for obstacles, cornices, loose rock. Then he started off again, snowshoes biting into the freshly fallen snow. They moved slowly, hiking up the talus slope. Near the base of the plug, McFarlane stopped at an unusual rock that poked out from the snow. He gave it a sharp rap with his rock hammer, slipped two chips into his sample pouch, and jotted a quick note.
"Playing with rocks," said Rachel. "How like a boy."
"That's why I became a planetary geologist."
"Bet you had a rock collection as a kid."
"Actually, no. What did you collect? Barbie dolls?"
Rachel snorted. "I had a rather eclectic collection. Bird's nests, snakeskins, dried tarantulas, bones, butterflies, scorpions, a dead owl, unusual roadkill—that sort of thing."
"Dried tarantulas?"
"Yeah. I grew up in Portal, Arizona, at the foot of the Chiricahua Mountains. In the fall, the big male tarantulas would come out onto the roads, looking to get laid. I had about thirty of them, mounted on a board. Goddamn dog ate my whole collection one day."
"Did the dog die?"
"Unfortunately, no. She threw them up all over my mom's bed, though. In the middle of the night. That was pretty funny." She giggled at the recollection.
They paused. The slope beyond grew steeper. Here the constant wind had given the snow a thick crust.
"Let's ditch the snowshoes," McFarlane said.
Despite the subzero weather, he felt overheated and tugged down the zipper of his parka. "We'll head for the saddle between the two peaks," he said, fitting crampons to his boots and moving forward again. "What kind of roadkill?"
"Herps, mostly."
"Herps?"
"Herpetological specimens. Amphibians and reptiles."
"Why?"
Rachel smiled. "Because they were interesting. Dry, flat easy to sort and store. I had some pretty unusual species."
"I bet your mom loved that."
"She didn't know about it."
They lapsed into silence, their breath leaving white trails behind them. A few minutes brought them to the saddle, and McFarlane stopped for another rest. "Three weeks on that damn ship has put me out of shape," he gasped.
"You did all right last night, mister." A grin began to spread across her face. Then she suddenly flushed, turning her face away.
He did not respond. Rachel had been a good partner, and he felt that he could trust her now, despite the duplicity. But what had happened last night was an unexpected complication. The last thing he wanted now were complications.
They rested for a few minutes, sharing a canteen of water. Far to the west, McFarlane could see a dark streak lying across the horizon: a harbinger of the storm.
"You seem different from the rest of Glinn's team," he said. "Why's that?"
"I am different. That's no accident. Everyone at EES is super cautious, including Glinn. He needed somebody who took risks. And, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm brilliant."
"I had noticed," said McFarlane, taking out a candy and handing it to her.
They chewed in silence. Then McFarlane stuffed the empty wrappers back into the pack and swung it over his shoulder, casting an appraising eye at the slope above them.
"It looks a little tricky from here. I'll go—"
But Rachel already began scrambling up the icy snowfield ahead of him. It rose to the bottom of the rock, getting bluer—icier—as it became steeper.
"Take it easy," he called up, looking out from the face. The view out over the rugged islands of the Horn group was spectacular. Far beyond, over the horizon, he could just see the tops of the Fuegian mountains. The Rolvaag, for all its bulk, looked like a child's bathtub toy in the black water of the bay. The destroyer could just be seen, mostly hidden by a rugged island. At the limit of vision, he could see the line of storm eating into the crystalline sky.
Looking back up, he was alarmed to see how quickly Rachel had climbed. "Slow down!" he called, more urgently this time.
"Slowpoke!" was the taunting reply.
And then a rock clattered past, followed by another, larger, inches from his ear. With a crumpling sound, a small part of the talus slope slid away from Rachel's feet, exposing a dark scar beneath the snow. She dropped heavily onto her stomach, legs dangling into space. A strangle of fear escaped her as she twisted, scrabbling for a purchase.
"Hold on!" McFarlane cried, scrambling upward.
In a moment he was on a broad ledge directly beneath her. He edged closer, cautious now, planting his feet carefully in the hard surface. He reached out and grasped her forearm. "I've got you," he panted. "Let go."
"I can't," she said between clenched teeth.
"It's okay," he repeated quietly. "I've got you."
She gave a small groan, then relaxed her grip. He felt her weight coming down on him and he twisted, guiding her feet to the broad ledge below him. She landed hard and collapsed, shaking, onto her knees.
"Oh, my God," she said, her voice quavering. "I almost fell." She put an arm around him.
"It's okay," he said. "You would've fallen all of five feet. Into
a snowdrift."
"Really?" She looked down and made a wry face. "It felt like the whole mountain was falling away in a landslide. I was going to say you saved my life, but I guess you didn't. Thanks anyway."
She raised her head to his, giving him a quick light kiss on the mouth. She paused a moment, then kissed him again, more deliberately this time. Then, sensing resistance, she pulled back, regarding him intently with her dark eyes. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, the world spread out a thousand feet below them.
"You still don't trust me, Sam?" she asked quietly.
"I trust you."
She drew closer to him again, her eyebrows knitting in a look of consternation. "Then what's wrong? Is there somebody else? Our gallant captain, perhaps? Even Eli seems—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes cast downward, hugging her knees closely to herself.
Half a dozen responses came to McFarlane's mind, but each one seemed either frivolous or patronizing. For want of a better reply, he simply reshouldered the pack and shook his head, smiling foolishly.
"There's a good sampling spot maybe twenty feet up the slope," he said after a moment.
Rachel's eyes were still on the ground. "You go get your sample. I think I'll wait here."
It was the work of a few minutes to reach the site, hack half a dozen pieces of the darker basalt from the rock face, and return to Rachel. She stood up as he approached, and they climbed back down to the saddle in silence.
"Let's take a breather," McFarlane said at last, as casually as he could. His eyes were on Rachel. They would be working together closely for the rest of the expedition; the last thing he needed was to have an awkwardness between them. He put his hand on her elbow and she turned toward him expectantly.
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