�When will you be going?� Eleanor asked, and when he told her, the full impact of the news suddenly struck her. If he was leaving the day after next, and he was already in contravention of the orders to remain at the barracks and camp, then this would be their last encounter, their last few minutes together before he sailed for the Crimea. The thought occurred to her, despite everything that she felt had passed between them in the previous weeks, despite any bond that might have been formed, that she truly might never see him again. And it wasn't only the dreaded prospect of war, and the inevitable chance of death, that terrified her; it was also the knowledge that had haunted her from the night she'd attended to his wounded arm. The knowledge that they did indeed inhabit utterly different worlds, and that if it weren't for that unlikely encounter, their paths would never have crossed. Sinclair, after his time overseas, might not return to London at all�he might go back to his family's estate in Nottinghamshire. (Although he was still quite circumspect about his background, she had gathered enough about it, from comments dropped by Le Maitre or Captain Rutherford, to know that it was rather impressive.) And even if he did return to London, would he choose to pick up again with a penniless nurse rather than the grand ladies who moved in his own social circles? Would this little adventure of his�and that was how she sometimes thought of it, in the darkest part of the night, when Moira's constant
turning in the bed kept her awake�would it still hold sufficient appeal for him to overrule all questions of practicality and decorum?
As if reading her mind, Sinclair said, �I'll write to you as soon as I can.�
And Eleanor suddenly had a vision of herself, sitting in the chair by the sooty window, holding a letter, creased and worn by its long journey from the east.
�And I will write to you,� she replied. �Every day.�
Sinclair took a half step forward, as did she, and suddenly they were in each other's arms, her cheek laid flat against the rough gold braid that adorned the front of his uniform. He smelled of dirt and sweat and his beloved horse, Ajax; he'd escorted her once to the regimental stables and let her feed the horse a handful of sugar. She clung to Sinclair for several minutes, neither of them saying a word. They didn't need to. And when they kissed, it held a bittersweet and valedictory note.
�I must go,� he said, gently disengaging.
She opened the door for him and watched as he hurried down the steps without looking back, the thunder of his boots echoing up the stairwell. If only opportunity had allowed, she thought, if only he'd had just a little more time, she would have liked him to see her outside, in the afternoon light, wearing the new yellow dress.
���
CHAPTER NINETEEN
December 9, 5 p.m.
AS MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED,
news of the amazing underwater discovery had threatened to sweep through the camp like wildfire, so Murphy�notified by walkie-talkie from the dive hut� had immediately imposed an executive order. Michael heard him barking instructions at Calloway to admit no one else onto the ice, or anywhere near the hut. He also ordered everyone in earshot to zip their lips until further notice.
�Wait for Danzig and the dogs to get there,� he said before signing off.
By the time the ice block was safely stowed on the back of a sledge, Danzig and his dog team had pulled to a stop fifty yards off. The huskies lay down on the snow and ice and watched the proceedings warily.
�Jesus H. Christ,� Danzig said, striding up to the sledge and marveling openly at the thing�the frozen woman�contained in the ice. He paced slowly around the ponderous block, and Michael
could tell he was already making some quick calculations about how best to transport it.
�That there, mates,� Calloway said, �is the weirdest thing I've ever seen come up, and let me tell you, I've seen plenty of weird stuff.�
�No shit, Sherlock,� said Franklin, who'd been assisting on the dive.
Michael could barely believe they'd done it. He had hastily taken off his diving gear, wrapped himself in more layers of dry clothing than ever before, and was sipping from a thermos of hot tea; still, he had the occasional shiver, and he knew he was suffering from a touch of the predictable hypothermia.
Lawson asked Danzig if they should call for a Spryte, or if he thought his dogs could pull the block back to camp.
Danzig, who always wore a good-luck charm of walrus teeth around his neck, laid one huge hand on the ice and with the other rubbed his chin. �Once we get it started, we can do it,� he declared. There was little that Danzig thought his dogs couldn't do, and he was always looking for ways to prove that modern technology had nothing on the reliable, old-fashioned methods that had been good enough for Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott.
While Danzig took care of unhooking his dogs from the one sledge and attaching them to the other, Michael rubbed his wrist, where the dry-suit seal had leaked. It ached the way a bad sprain would. Franklin and Calloway were still gawking at the woman in the ice�and when one of them laughed, and made some coarse joke about waking Sleeping Beauty with a kiss she'd never forget� Michael took a tarp from the dogsled and threw it over the ice. Franklin looked at him oddly for stopping the show, but as Michael secured the tarp with a couple of pitons, Danzig glanced at him knowingly, and asked, �Did the chief tell you anything about where he wanted to put her?� He sounded vaguely like a funeral director asking a family member about the recently deceased.
�Not a word.� For Michael, it was strange even to be asked. He wasn't a scientist, and he wasn't even one of the grunts. He occupied some middle ground, some ill-defined territory, and yet he had already come to be regarded as the rightful advocate for the woman retrieved from the deep.
�Well, she shouldn't be moved directly inside,� Danzig said,
thinking out loud, �because if the thaw was too rapid, it might do some damage.�
Yes, Michael could see the wisdom of that.
�So it might be a good idea to keep her in the core bin, behind the glaciology lab. Betty and Tina could even use some of their tools to cut away the excess ice.�
�Sure,� Michael said, �that sounds fine.� He was glad to have someone there who was thinking more clearly than he was.
There was a commotion among the dogs, and Danzig hollered, �Hey!� and moved off to put a stop to it. The huskies were a rambunctious lot�Michael had already seen them in action more than once�but usually they obeyed any command as soon as it was given. Only this time, several of them were struggling at their leads, backing away from the block of ice, and their pack leader, Ko-diak�a massive dog with eyes like big blue marbles�was actually barking and snarling. Danzig was using a firm but even voice, coupled with hand signals, to quiet the dogs down, but even he looked surprised at the rebellion.
�Kodiak!� Danzig finally shouted, repeatedly shaking the dog's lead. �Down!�
The dog stayed on his feet, barking madly.
�Down! Kodiak�down!�
Danzig had to put a hand on the dog's squirming neck and press him toward the ice. Once down, he held him there, impressing his authority. The other dogs, though still whining, gradually took the cue and quieted down. Danzig unsnarled some of the harnesses and leads, then stepped onto the back of the sledge, and shouted, �Hike!�
The dogs jerked forward to get the sledge sliding, but not with their customary exuberance, and the sledge hardly budged. Two or three of them were still trying to look behind them, as if afraid of something coming up close behind, and Danzig had to snap the reins and shout his orders again and again.
Michael wondered if the load was simply too great.
�Hike! Hike!� Danzig shouted, and the dogs again leapt forward, this time getting the runners sliding on the ice. As the sledge gained momentum, it went more smoothly, until the dozen huskies were racing in unison, and the slab of ice, with its frozen cargo, was on its way back toward the base. While Calloway closed up the dive
hut, Michael hitched a ride on Franklin's snowmobile, and they followed the barking dogs back to camp.
No matter how long Michael stood there, head down, the hot water running off his scalp and down his body, he felt like there was still some part of him, deep inside, that still harbored another shiver or two. When the steam in the shower room had achieved epic proportions and he could hardly see his hand in front of his face, he shut off the water and rubbed himself down briskly with the fresh towels that were always in abundant supply. He had to take special care with his shoulder, the one he had dislocated in the Cascades. It still gave him trouble from time to time, and diving in such heavy gear, in frigid waters, hadn't helped. He used the towel to wipe clear a section of the fogged mirror, then disentangled some of his long black hair. He'd taken care of nearly everything before leaving Tacoma, but getting a haircut had slipped his mind. So it was looking more shaggy than usual. He could, he supposed, get it cut�one of the base personnel doubled as a barber�but it didn't seem like anyone else at Point Ad�lie cared a whole lot about personal appearance. Betty and Tina stomped around in men's clothes, with their blond hair hastily gathered into loose clumps, and most of the men looked like they'd just stepped out of a cave. Nearly all of them had beards, moustaches, even long woolly sideburns that hadn't been seen since the Civil War. Ponytails were popular too, especially among the balding beakers like Ackerley the botanist who was so seldom seen outside his lab that he had earned the nickname �Spook.� As for Danzig, in addition to his necklace of walrus teeth, he wore a bracelet of bones and a pair of pants he'd made himself out of reindeer hide. Michael was reminded of a joke he'd heard from a single woman he'd met in a bar when he was on assignment in Alaska: �The odds are good,� she'd said, surveying all the men, �but the goods are odd.�
Before heading over to the commons�man, could he use a hot meal about now�he ducked into the SAT-phone room and called his editor, on his home line. In the background, he could hear a basketball game on TV, but when Gillespie knew it was Michael, and not some phone solicitor, the game went off immediately and he said, �You okay? Everything okay?�
Michael took a second to savor what he was about to tell him, then said, �Better than okay. Are you sitting down?�
�No, and now I don't plan to. What?�
And then Michael told him, in as calm and deliberate a manner as possible�he didn't want Gillespie thinking he'd gone off his rocker at the South Pole�that they had found a body, maybe even two, frozen in an iceberg, and that, furthermore, they had recovered them. Gillespie had remained silent the whole time that Michael had been talking and he stayed silent now, too. Michael had to finally say, �Are you there?�
�You're not joking?�
�Not joking.�
�This is for real?�
Michael heard a timer go off on a microwave.
�Totally. And did I mention that I'm the one who made the discovery?�
It sounded like Gillespie had dropped the phone on a counter. Michael could dimly make out, through the static, a series of whoops and hollers. When Gillespie picked up the receiver again, he said, �Oh my God. This is phenomenal. And you've got photos?�
�Yes, and I'll get more.�
�Michael, I'm telling you, if this is for real��
�It is,� Michael assured him. �I saw the girl with my own eyes.�
�Then this is going to get us a national magazine award! If we handle this right, we could triple our subscription base. You could go on
Sixty Minutes.
You could get a book deal, and maybe even sell some movie rights.�
He went on for another minute or so, during which time the reception occasionally broke down, and Michael had to wait patiently for it to return. But when the line cleared, and he could explain that the phone was operational only for certain hours every day and that someone else was waiting to use it, Gillespie let him go; it sounded like he needed a stiff drink, anyway. And Michael was going to keel over if he didn't get to the commons.
