In Cold Pursuit (42 page)

Jeannie laughed. “But we’re all genetically close.”

“Try thinking that when you look like me.”

Jeannie turned and faced her. “There is no such thing as race.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the research done in the past half century has said the same thing: we are all one race with only minor variations, but the mixing is spread all across the globe, the result of constant intermarriage, not just this tribe splitting off from that. And surely you’ve heard about mitochondrial Eve? Each woman on this planet, including you and me, carries the same genetic coding in our mitochondria, with only minor, minor variations that have built up over the millennia. In a manner of speaking, we are all daughters of one ancient mother. We all carry her heritage. We are sisters.” She had begun to make emphatic gestures.

Valena smiled. “You’re upsetting the penguins.”

Jeannie pulled in her arms and spoke more quietly. “We all trace ourselves to one small population that lived in southern Africa less than two hundred thousand years ago. Less than two glacial cycles, putting it in the time frame you glaciologists think in.”

“Interesting.”

“I was reading a book called
Mapping Human History
while I was flying down here from the States. Then when I was waiting to change planes in Sydney, I looked around at all the faces of the people who were waiting with me. They were from every part of the globe—Asian, European, African, Polynesian, you name it—and we were all standing in line, all facing
into the light, and suddenly I saw what was similar about every face, instead of first seeing the differences.”

Valena could think of nothing to say, except, “I’d like to see that, too.”

A
T NOON
, V
ALENA PICKED FROM HER BOOTS THE GRIT
and other material she had accumulated during her time on Cape Royds. After splitting the sample into two, she put each half into a separate plastic bag, labeled them, signed them with the date, and passed them to Nat and Jeannie to do the same. She then taped the ziplock edges shut and ran staples all along through the tape so that no bag could be opened and reclosed without leaving an obvious path of disruption. She repeated this process with grit from Nat’s boots, and then Jeannie’s, and added to the pile the tiny collection of glass shards lent by the archaeologist.

“Take care of those glass shards,” said Nat. “Conserving all the artifacts in those huts is a mammoth undertaking, being done with private contributions. The Kiwis take the job very seriously, as well they should.”

“I hear you.” Her data-collecting chores done, Valena turned to Jeannie’s laptop, clicked onto the Internet, and brought up Emmett Vanderzee’s Web site. She turned to the pages that would already have been in place the year before, trying to figure out what had caught Morris Sweeny’s interest.

Dan Lindemann had posted a blog of preparations for that year’s deployment to Antarctica. There were two photographs on the page: one of Emmett, Bob Schwartz, and Dan Lindemann giving thumbs-ups in front of a map of Antarctica; and another of Emmett and Cal Hart packing crates to be shipped south from Reno. The picture with Cal in it interested her. Dan had caught him in profile, but he had noticed the camera out of the corner of his eye and was not smiling. In fact, he appeared to be lifting his hand to ward off having his image caught for the Web site.

Valena typed out an e-mail:

“There,” she said. “We now have a representative sampling of what we might find in the boots of our mystery guest, and samples from which to ID the missing bottles. My
colleague back in the States will hopefully tell me how to proceed with the analyses.”

“Who’s your colleague?” asked Jeannie.

“Emily Hansen. She’s cracked a bunch of murder cases using geologic evidence. Technically speaking, the glass here is man-made geology. Em knows people in the FBI lab. The FBI would call this trace evidence.”

“Nicely done,” said Nat. “But I shall admit to having a heavy conscience about asking you to help with this. If you’re right that there’s a connection between the eggs and bottles and the dead Cat driver, then please leave it to the professionals.”

Valena said, “I’m on my way to the Dry Valleys, and I think I’ll be safe there. As soon as I get back to McMurdo, I’ll turn in my evidence, and then everyone will know what I know, and I’ll no longer be a target.”

Jeannie said, “I think I hear your helo.”

Valena cocked an ear. The distant throbbing of helicopter blades had invaded the wilderness of Cape Royds.

They walked outside Nat’s tent to watch the helo approach around the shoulder of Mount Erebus, a tiny dot of machinery suspended in a frozen sky. Its far thudding grew louder as it increased in size, blades a blur of movement, its skids now swinging overhead, the sound concussive and deafening, snow and grit pounding into a wild dance. The machine hovered, slid sideways, chose a landing site, and settled, the blades still spinning.

“Lucky you,” Jeannie said, shouting to be heard over the engine and rotors. “You got the AStar. The sports car of all Antarctic helos.”

The blades continued to whirl. “Looks like he wants to load you hot,” Nat hollered. “You ever done this before?”

“No!” Valena’s heart was hammering in her chest. In survival training, Manuel had told them that although the roar of the helicopter would urge them to hurry, they must keep their heads and not approach the craft unless beckoned by the pilot.

Nat walked a wide arc around the field until he stood fifty feet in front of the helicopter, making eye contact with the pilot.
He grabbed the front of his pants with one hand and put the other across his chest, then pointed at Valena.

The blades crooned to a stop.

Valena hefted her duffels and walked over next to Nat. “What did you say to him? Your semaphores, I mean.”

“I told him you’re a virgin.”

Valena started to laugh. Impulsively, she gave Nat a hug, and then she shared a longer, womanly squeeze with Jeannie.

The pilot popped his door open and stepped out. “Where’s mine?” he called, in a crisp British accent.

Jeannie wiggled her eyebrows. “You got Paul. Stand by for major flirtation,” she said. “Underneath that helmet he’s a looker.”

“We’ll put your gear in this external basket with your skis,” said Paul, indicating a pod on the side of the aircraft. He hefted each duffel and checked them for weight tags. “And you, my dear, shall ride up front with me. Discussion of your charms around Mac Town had prepared me for a happy flight, but you far outreach their capacity for description.”

Valena averted her eyes in embarrassment.

“Helmets, your choice of sizes.” He produced two helmets and helped Valena find the one that fit best. Then he showed her how to climb up into her seat, buckle the restraints, and latch the door.

Valena smiled and waved at Nat and Jeannie.
I’m in a helicopter!
she told herself.
I am in Antarctica in a helicopter, and I’m about to fly to the continent!

The helicopter was no larger than a passenger car inside, and the whole front seemed to be made of Plexiglas, even down to a panel of it beneath her feet. Paul restarted the engine, soon bringing its squeal to a screaming pitch. The blade in front of them began to swing, disappearing around behind them to be replaced by its opposite, and again, and faster, and faster, until they formed nothing but a blur. Paul gripped the stick and the collective, twitched them this way and that, and up they went.

The ground dropped away. Contracted. Nat and Jeannie shrank into mice, and then gnats. The helicopter began to
slide forward, tilting slightly toward its nose, still rising. The penguins went by, tiny dots of black and white on the splattered rock. The helicopter was over the frozen sea now, the Transantarctic Range spreading across the horizon to greet them.

They flew across trackless miles of ice, their world reduced to a tiny bubble that cast a vague shadow the size of a pinhead far below them. The edge of the continent slowly resolved from a thin line to a scrabble of rocks, and then they were over it, continuing onward, now cutting up a valley between two ranges of mountains, following a river of ice toward its source. The glacier filled the valley in a fractured cascade, frightening in its instability. “I wouldn’t want to walk on that,” she said to Paul through her tiny microphone.

“No, you would not. But beautiful, eh? In a terrifying sort of way? And look at this one.” He pointed to their right, to a lobe of ice that hung like a tongue from a high side valley. “Incredible, all the shapes. Before I came here, I thought ice was ice, but it’s a world unto itself, infinitely variable. This will be Clark Glacier up here to our right.” He lifted the controls, raising them up higher and higher, climbing like a mosquito up over an elephant’s hide, skimming up past dry, empty walls of rock until they came out over a notch in the mountains. “This is the Olympus Range,” said Paul. “Just one of many ranges that make up the Transantarctics here in the Dry Valleys. And here on this saddle sits Clark Glacier. Just a little thing, only two miles wide and how many long. A nice, quiet little glacier with no cracks in it for you to begin your studies.”

“I’ll take my ice as crevasse-free as I can get it,” said Valena. “Where’s the camp?”

“Just there,” said Paul. “Can’t you see it?”

Valena peered out across the smooth expanse of snow-covered ice looking for the line of tents she knew must be there. They had a drill rig going, so there would be at least one very large tent, but where was it?

Suddenly, she saw it: a minuscule group of pinpoint dots. The dots grew larger now, and larger yet, until they were a
line of tents: two yellow Scotts, a few small domes, one large orange dome for the drill, and something that looked like a brightly colored pill bug. A tiny person was waving at them, pointing to a position in which he wanted them to land. No,
she
, Valena realized, as they descended low enough to make out the smiling face of a woman.

They settled onto the snow, and Paul shut down the engine, bringing the rotors to a stop. Valena unclipped her seat belt and shoulder restraints and hopped out. “Dr. Bosch?” she inquired.

“Please call me Naomi,” said the woman. She was in her late thirties or early forties and very fit, dressed in nicely fitted overalls and a thick fleece sweater. A bright red knit cap did not quite cover a head full of busy brown curls, and her alert brown eyes took in Valena in detail. Naomi was a smiler, and her welcome was clear and hearty.

“Thanks for having me to your camp,” said Valena.

“Glad to have an extra pair of hands. Let’s get these core boxes unloaded,” said Naomi. “Hey, boys! Hop to it!”

A flap on the side of the big drilling tent opened, and two young men stepped out and hurried to help Naomi with the core packing boxes. When they were done, one of them stood off to one side, eyeing Valena through his dark glasses.

Valena recognized him from brief sightings around DRI: here, at last, was Daniel Lindemann.

N
AOMI REACHED INSIDE THE HELICOPTER, SELECTED A
helmet, and put it on. “Climb back in,” she told Valena.

Valena gasped. “I’m not staying?”

“Oh, we’ll be back later,” said Naomi, “but first we’ve got to scout our next drilling location.” She gave Valena a wink. “Come on, I know it’s a lot to ask …”

“I’m in!” said Valena.

Naomi turned to the men. “Now, don’t look so hangdog. You’ll be living there in a few days.”

Dan Lindemann slunk back off to the drilling tent.

“Surly,” Paul whispered, so that only Valena could hear him. “Unfriendly. I saw him watching you.”

Valena gritted her teeth. “If I have any ‘accidents’ in the next day or so, you remember that, okay?”

Paul’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.

They loaded up and lifted off, peeling away to the northwest toward the next valley. As they crossed over it, Valena saw why the Dry Valleys were thus named: this one had no ice in it at all. In fact, it was carpeted with sand dunes. The valley did not at first appear to be very large, but when they swung out to cross it, it seemed to expand and swallow them. Once again, the terrain had tricked her mind.

They flew along a great, dark cliff that stood in pillarlike columns.
More volcanics
, thought Valena, but, looking far to the left and right, she saw that this flow had not come out across the surface of the earth but had instead been injected between layers of rock.
A sill
, she thought, recalling the correct term from her geology classes. And it went on and on.

Never had she seen one so clearly exposed, nor so large, even in photographs.

Naomi’s voice came to her through her headphones. “That’s the Ferrar Dolerite,” she said. “Pretty impressive, eh? That cliff will be a couple hundred feet high, and you know how far it goes?”