"I'm going up the ramp to fire some flares," Cameron said. "Maybe he can home in on that."
"You can't see for shit." Tyson looked as exhausted as a blown horse.
"I've got to try something."
"You can't see, you can't hear, you can't find. I just stumbled on the fingie with dumb luck."
"I've got to do something. I can't lose two."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The storm blew for thirty-seven hours, the snow crystalline and pitiless, driven so hard by the wind that it sizzled against the outside of the dome like grease in a frying pan. In that long cold twilight of noise and confinement, with no telephone or radio call for help, the winter-overs of Amundsen-Scott base became glumly convinced that Harrison Adams was also dead. In the midst of the storm Cameron led a party, roped and lit, out along the flag route to the Dark Sector astronomy building to look for him again. One flag was down, a bad sign, and they had to use GPS to bridge the gap. They searched the building, endured two hours in the blizzard going and coming back, and found nothing. Any further searching had to wait until the wind died down.
"I told everyone to stay put," Cameron said bitterly as he exhaustedly shed his parka, his nylon frozen over by a sheen of ice. "Why the hell didn't they stay put?"
No predecessor had ever lost two people before.
The great hush that marked the end of the storm came at what the clock said was morning. So much snow had drifted that when they opened the exit door to the ramp again, there was a chest-high wall they had to dig through to get outside. Tyson was told to warm up a Cat to bulldoze more blocking snow away and this time he complied without rebellion. The tragedies seemed to be sobering him. The others marched out in a platoon of orange and fanned out to look for Adams's body. Cameron passed out whistles to signal.
The clouds were gone. It was almost the equinox, the time when the sun would disappear completely from the Pole. The orb scraped the horizon, a trick of light making part of it seem to catch and drag behind in a blob of trailing fire, the brightness washed out by the rim of light fog that surrounded them. The haze was so thick and the light so low that the entire station already seemed shrouded in cold, sepulchral twilight. The temperature was seventy-three degrees below zero. During the storm the windchill had dipped to a hundred and fifty below.
Lewis searched for Adams in a mood of glum depression. Maybe if he'd called about the storm at its first sign the astronomer might have made it. Maybe if he hadn't lost the flag route he'd have run into Adams. He was lucky he wasn't dead himself. Cameron had chewed him out for not staying at Clean Air as he'd been told. "Getting lost puts everyone else in jeopardy. It was a stupid, juvenile, fingie stunt."
Norse asked Lewis if he'd thought up anything new about Mickey's death. "Harrison said he was coming out to see you. I presume there was a reason."
"He didn't tell me that."
"People are pretty bummed out, Jed. We've got to get a handle on what's going on."
"Don't you think I'm trying? It's pretty tough to play detective when no one will talk to me. Help me out on this, will you?"
He grimaced. "People are shy about talking to me, too."
Lewis walked up the flag line now toward the astronomy building, trying to imagine where the missing astronomer might have gone. His own stumbling trek had made him realize how easy it was to get lost. Adams had obviously gone off course while trying to get to Clean Air, for some reason choosing to talk to Lewis personally instead of simply call. Why? Once disoriented, his body shutting down from the cold, Adams would have sought any shelter. Where?
The stark nature of the polar plateau created an illusion, Lewis had realized. The base seemed simple and yet there were more than a hundred separate buildings and structures scattered around: observatories, storage shacks, vaults, telescopes, antennas, and long rows of stockpiled crates called cargo berms. If lost, Adams could have stumbled into a lot of places to seek refuge. Cameron and a few others were already searching the electrical substation shack and telescope support buildings of the astronomy sector, digging into the drifted-over plywood bumps one by one.
Lewis meanwhile squinted down the flag line, holding out his arm to provide a makeshift straightedge. The flags were leaning raggedly, but for the most part they'd held. The astronomer should have been able to follow…
You didn't, he remembered.
And here there was a flag missing. Adams should have retreated.
You didn't, he reminded himself.
Lewis walked to the gap where the flag had fallen and slowly realized that the markers nearer the astronomy complex seemed slightly out of alignment. Going toward the astronomy building the gap seemed hardly to matter: A straight walk from flag to flag would aim you correctly across the break in the route. But turned the other way…
Lewis backed up and sighted again. It was a subtle shift, hardly noticeable with the wind gone and the snow once more lying obediently in place. And yet he knew just how blind he'd been. Going this way, the last two flags would point at an angle that led off the main sled road, toward the white no-man's-land of the runway. A person walking that way would veer away from the dome, fail to find the next flag because of the gap, cross the skiway, and…
Had someone shifted the flags?
Suddenly certain, Lewis started by himself toward a cluster of shacks where the planes taxied. If Adams had gotten into shelter over there, it was possible he was still alive. People had seemed dead on Everest, stone cold, and yet had revived. Inside a shack, Harrison might have had a chance…
A substation and storage shed were padlocked for the winter: No refuge there. But a warm-up shed, used by air crew to rejuvenate as they loaded and unloaded planes, had not been bolted.
"Harrison!"
No answer.
The building was nothing but a weathered plywood box with a shed roof and a round plastic bubble window to view the runway. Its portable heater was probably in winter storage. Still, it offered shelter from the wind. Lewis tried the door but it was stuck, frozen shut. When he pounded there was no answer. He went around to the window but it was smoked against summer glare and too scratched to see inside.
He studied the door again. A flat orange cord and a bar of ice ran around its frame, thicker than was normal. If the ice had been present when Adams arrived, the astronomer couldn't have gotten inside. Yet why was there so much? As on other buildings, the cord was an electrical heat tape that ran around the jamb that was used to melt accumulating frost and keep openings from sticking. Somehow this one hadn't worked or had gone haywire. The ice had sealed the door.
"Adams!"
His shout drifted away in the cold twilight.
Something else orange caught Lewis's eye, poking out from the bottom of the wall near the door. A scrap of fabric. He stopped to inspect it, brushing snow aside, and slow dread began to settle on him as he dug. It was a mitten, a buried mitten. When Lewis tried to pick it up it wouldn't come because he felt something hard inside, stiff and clawlike.
Fingers.
Attached to someone's arm.
Lewis was holding Adams's frozen hand, reaching blindly out from under the wall of the warm-up shack as if the man were trying to dig his way out of a vault.
He dropped the mitten and backed away.
The arm was reaching out from beneath the shed wall in supplication, its hole too shallow for a body to squeeze through. The astronomer had tried to get out of the ice-locked shed through its floor, burrowing through the snow. He'd been stopped by the underlying ice.
Lewis's heart was hammering. Something had gone horribly wrong. He looked more closely at the ribbon of heat tape. The astronomer had gotten inside. Maybe in his confusion Adams might have cranked the tape temperature too high, melting so much snow that water ran down the frame to create a bar of ice, meaning he could no longer get outside. Yet why had the water then turned to ice? Why had the tape failed?
Lewis followed the cord down to the snow where it turned toward a junction box that supplied electricity. Orange wire came up as he would expect, winding, winding…
At the corner of the shack it was broken.
No. Neatly cut.
Harrison Adams had not died alone. Someone had followed him and effectively locked him in, snipping the tape and imprisoning him in ice.
This wasn't negligence, Lewis thought.
This was murder.
There was a gasp and he turned. Dana Andrews had come up behind him and was looking from the beseeching mitten to Lewis's own hand and the severed cord. Her head rotated from mitten to cord, back and forth, as if at a tennis match.
Then she pulled her plastic whistle out from her parka, put it to her mouth, and blew, and blew, and blew.
***
The winter-overs swarmed the warm-up shed like a crowd at an accident, looking in horrified fascination at the beseeching arm and severed tape. Everyone kept a wary distance from Lewis. Cameron strode up, puffing after a quick trot from astronomy, took in the scene in a moment, and brusquely ordered the others to leave. "I want Norse and Lewis only. The rest of you back to the dome. I don't want anyone thinking anything. Not yet."
But everyone was already thinking, of course, considering every dark possibility.
"Why us?" the psychologist asked.
"Because we've got some talking to do."
The others trailed off in a line of orange, looking curiously back at the remaining trio and the forlorn shack. Once they were back, their galley would buzz with speculation like a disturbed hive. Cameron, Lewis, and Norse watched until the others disappeared inside and then fetched a wooden beam from the cargo area to batter down the shed door. The ram made a dull, booming echo in the dusky morning, like the dirge of a bell. Finally the ice shattered in a spray like broken glass and the door burst inward.
Adams's last moments were heartbreaking. He must have stumbled inside in exhaustion, seeking a temporary refuge from the mind-deadening wind. The shack was insulated but had no heat. Eventually Harrison would have realized that he was still in subzero cold and had to start again for the dome, but when he tried to go back out the astronomer was frozen in. He'd have butted and kicked and screamed but no one knew where he was; no one could hear him above the howl of the wind. Eventually he must have panicked. With superhuman energy he'd somehow managed to rip up one of the plywood sections that formed the shack's crude floor, nails shattering in the cold. He'd sliced the nylon arm of his parka in the process and scraped his wrist. The floor was dotted with droplets of frozen blood. Then he'd burrowed, throwing a small heap of snow to one side of the room as he tried to dig his way out of his cold trap. The ice was too close to the surface to allow him to squeeze his way out. At some point he'd stopped, from exhaustion or defeat, helpless in a spasm of shivering, and then he'd fallen asleep as his core temperature plunged. Pain, and then no pain. At least his eyes were closed.
"I thought he took a radio," Norse said.
Cameron searched for one.
Adams had it in his pocket but its battery was dead. Someone had failed to recharge it. The astronomer probably hadn't checked.
"It looks like someone broke the heat tape," Lewis said dully.
"Cut it," Cameron said.
"What tape?" Norse asked.
Cameron pointed to the orange cord around the door. "You've seen these to keep the doorjambs from freezing?" He pointed to a dial at the bottom of the door. "Adams, or someone, cranked this tape way too high. It would have created a Niagara of meltwater around this jamb. Then the tape broke or was cut."
"I don't get it."
"If you wanted to seal someone inside an unheated shack at the height of a blizzard, that would be the way to do it. Melt some water, get the doorway wet, and then cut the heat off. The door would freeze as if it were welded." He looked at the other two.
"You're saying someone trapped him?"
"I'm saying I don't know how the hell else that tape broke."
"Maybe it was just an accident," Norse said. "Everything's brittle in the cold."
"Like Mickey."
"Yes. Two accidents."
"And what kind of luck is that?" Cameron's tone was bitter.
"Sometimes random chance clusters. You're a scientist and you know that. Unfortunately, the cluster fell on your watch. I'll be the first to testify you did all you can."
"Testify? At my trial?" The station manager gave a sharp laugh. "At my funeral?"
"I just mean when NSF asks questions about this. You've had bad luck, Rod."
"Jesus. One storm and I'm down two beakers. Is that some kind of record, or what?"
"Mickey didn't die in the storm."
"No, I lost him in clear weather. Christ Almighty. I wish I was the one who was dead." He looked gloomily down at Adams. "Can't someone pull his fucking neck gaiter up over his face so I don't have to look at him?"
Stooping, Lewis did so.
"Accident my ass."
"If it wasn't an accident, then why?" Norse asked.
Cameron looked grimly at Lewis. "That's the question, isn't it? Jed, why was Adams coming to see you in Clean Air?"
"I don't know. It's not like we were buddies."
"Why did you leave Clean Air after I told you not to?"
"To help find him! I couldn't last out that storm, I'd starve. I thought I'd meet him coming back to the dome. It was stupid to tell me to stay out there, Rod. I should have left before I did."
"Did you see Harrison in the storm?"
"No, of course not."
"But you saw Tyson."
"He saw me."
"You were riding with him. Tyson and you, together. The guy who doesn't like Adams."