44

Inside the habisphere's "staging room," Rachel Sexton felt like an astronaut as she slid into one of NASA's Mark IX microclimate survival suits. The black, one-piece, hooded jumpsuit resembled an inflatable scuba suit. Its two-ply, memory-foam fabric was fitted with hollow channels through which a dense gel was pumped to help the wearer regulate body temperature in both hot and cold environments.

Now, as Rachel pulled the tight-fitting hood over her head, her eyes fell on the NASA administrator. He appeared as a silent sentinel at the door, clearly displeased with the necessity for this little mission.

Norah Mangor was muttering obscenities as she got everyone outfitted. "Here's an extra pudgy," she said, tossing Corky his suit.

Tolland was already half into his.

Once Rachel was fully zipped up, Norah found the stopcock on Rachel's side and connected her to an infusion tube that coiled out of a silver canister resembling a large scuba tank.

"Inhale," Norah said, opening the valve.

Rachel heard a hiss and felt gel being injected into the suit. The memory foam expanded, and the suit compressed around her, pressing down on her inner layer of clothing. The sensation reminded her of sticking her hand underwater while wearing a rubber glove. As the hood inflated around her head, it pressed in on her ears, making everything sound muffled. I'm in a cocoon.

"Best thing about the Mark IX," Norah said, "is the padding. You can fall on your ass and not feel a thing."

Rachel believed it. She felt like she was trapped inside a mattress.

Norah handed Rachel a series of tools-an ice ax, tether snaps, and carabiners, which she affixed to the belt harnessed on Rachel's waist.

"All this?" Rachel asked, eyeing the gear. "To go two hundred yards?"

Norah's eyes narrowed. "You want to come or not?"

Tolland gave Rachel a reassuring nod. "Norah's just being careful."

Corky connected to the infusion tank and inflated his suit, looking amused. "I feel like I'm wearing a giant condom."

Norah gave a disgusted groan. "Like you'd know, virgin boy."

Tolland sat down next to Rachel. He gave her a weak smile as she donned her heavy boots and crampons. "You sure you want to come?" His eyes had a protective concern that drew her in.

Rachel hoped her confident nod belied her growing trepidation. Two hundred yards... not far at all. "And you thought you could find excitement only on the high seas."

Tolland chuckled, talking as he attached his own crampons. "I've decided I like liquid water much better than this frozen stuff."

"I've never been a big fan of either," Rachel said. "I fell through the ice as a kid. Water's made me nervous ever since."

Tolland glanced over, his eyes sympathetic. "Sorry to hear that. When this is over, you'll have to come out and visit me on the Goya. I'll change your mind about water. Promise."

The invitation surprised her. The Goya was Tolland's research ship-well-known both from its role in Amazing Seas as well as its reputation as one of the strangest-looking ships on the ocean. Although a visit to the Goya would be unnerving for Rachel, she knew it would be hard to pass up.

"She's anchored twelve miles off the coast of New Jersey at the moment," Tolland said, struggling with his crampon latches.

"Sounds like an unlikely spot."

"Not at all. The Atlantic seaboard is an incredible place. We were gearing up to shoot a new documentary when I was so rudely interrupted by the President."

Rachel laughed. "Shooting a documentary on what?"

"Sphyrna mokarran and megaplumes."

Rachel frowned. "Glad I asked."

Tolland finished attaching his crampons and looked up. "Seriously, I'll be filming out there for a couple weeks. Washington's not that far from the Jersey coast. Come out when you get back home. No reason to spend your life afraid of the water. My crew would roll out the red carpet for you."

Norah Mangor's voice blared. "Are we going outside, or should I get you two some candles and champagne?"

45

Gabrielle Ashe had no idea what to make of the documents now spread out before her on Marjorie Tench's desk. The pile included photocopied letters, faxes, transcripts of phone conversations, and they all seemed to support the allegation that Senator Sexton was in covert dialogue with private space companies.

Tench pushed a couple of grainy black-and-white photographs toward Gabrielle. "I assume this is news to you?"

Gabrielle looked at the photos. The first candid shot showed Senator Sexton getting out of a taxi in some kind of underground garage. Sexton never takes taxis. Gabrielle looked at the second shot-a telephoto of Sexton climbing into a parked white minivan. An old man appeared to be in the van waiting for him.

"Who is that?" Gabrielle said, suspicious the photos might be faked.

"A big shot from the SFF."

Gabrielle was doubtful. "The Space Frontier Foundation?"

The SFF was like a "union" for private space companies. It represented aerospace contractors, entrepreneurs, venture capitalists-any private entity that wanted to go into space. They tended to be critical of NASA, arguing that the U.S. space program employed unfair business practices to prevent private companies from launching missions into space.

"The SFF," Tench said, "now represents over a hundred major corporations, some very wealthy enterprises who are waiting eagerly for the Space Commercialization Promotions Act to be ratified."

Gabrielle considered it. For obvious reasons the SFF was a vocal supporter of Sexton's campaign, although the senator had been careful not to get too close to them because of their controversial lobbying tactics. Recently the SFF had published an explosive rant charging that NASA was in fact an "illegal monopoly" whose ability to operate at a loss and still stay in business represented unfair competition to private firms. According to the SFF, whenever AT T needed a telecomm satellite launched, several private space companies offered to do the job at a reasonable $50 million. Unfortunately, NASA always stepped in and offered to launch AT T's satellites for a mere twenty-five million, even though it cost NASA five times that to do the job! Operating at a loss is one way NASA keeps its grip on space, the SFF lawyers accused. And taxpayers pick up the tab.

"This photo reveals," Tench said, "that your candidate is holding secret meetings with an organization that represents private space enterprises." Tench motioned to several other documents on the table. "We also have internal SFF memos calling for huge sums of money to be collected from SFF member companies-in amounts commensurate with their net worth-and transferred to accounts controlled by Senator Sexton. In effect, these private space agencies are anteing up to put Sexton in office. I can only assume he has agreed to pass the commercialization bill and privatize NASA if elected."

Gabrielle looked at the pile of papers, unconvinced. "Do you expect me to believe that the White House has evidence that its opponent is engaged in profoundly illegal campaign finance-and yet, for some reason, you are keeping it secret?"

"What would you believe?"

Gabrielle glared. "Frankly, considering your skills for manipulation, a more logical solution seems that you are plying me somehow with phony documents and photos produced by some enterprising White House staffer and his desktop publishing computer."

"Possible, I admit. But not true."

"No? Then how did you get all these internal documents from corporations? The resources required to steal all of this evidence from so many companies certainly exceeds the grasp of the White House."

"You're right. This information arrived here as an unsolicited gift."

Gabrielle was now lost.

"Oh yes," Tench said, "we get a lot of it. The President has many powerful political allies who would like to see him stay in office. Remember, your candidate is suggesting cuts all over the place-a lot of them right here in Washington. Senator Sexton certainly has no qualms about citing the FBI's bloated budget as an example of government overspending. He's taken some potshots at the IRS, too. Maybe someone at the bureau or at the service got a little annoyed."

Gabrielle got the implication. People at the FBI and IRS would have ways of getting this kind of information. They might then send it to the White House as an unsolicited favor to help the President's election. But what Gabrielle could not make herself believe was that Senator Sexton would ever be engaged in illegal campaign funding. "If this data is accurate," Gabrielle challenged, "which I strongly doubt it is, why haven't you gone public?"

"Why do you think?"

"Because it was gathered illegally."

"How we got it makes no difference."

"Of course it makes a difference. It's inadmissible in a hearing."

"What hearing? We'd simply leak this to a newspaper, and they'd run it as a 'credible-source' story with photos and documentation. Sexton would be guilty until proven innocent. His vocal anti-NASA stance would be virtual proof that he is taking bribes."

Gabrielle knew it was true. "Fine," she challenged, "then why haven't you leaked the information?"

"Because it's a negative. The President promised not to go negative in the campaign and he wants to stick to that promise as long as he can."

Yeah, right! "You're telling me the President is so upstanding that he refuses to go public with this because people might consider it a negative?"

"It's a negative for the country. It implicates dozens of private companies, many of which are made up of honest people. It besmirches the office of the U.S. Senate and is bad for the country's morale. Dishonest politicians hurt all politicians. Americans need to trust their leaders. This would be an ugly investigation and would most likely send a U.S. senator and numerous prominent aerospace executives to jail."

Although Tench's logic did make sense, Gabrielle still doubted the allegations. "What does any of this have to do with me?"

"Simply put, Ms. Ashe, if we release these documents, your candidate will be indicted for illegal campaign financing, lose his Senate seat, and most likely do prison time." Tench paused. "Unless... "

Gabrielle saw a snakelike glint in the senior adviser's eyes. "Unless what?"

Tench took a long drag on her cigarette. "Unless you decide to help us avoid all that."

A murky silence settled over the room.

Tench coughed roughly. "Gabrielle, listen, I decided to share this unfortunate information with you for three reasons. First, to show you Zach Herney is a decent man who considers the government's well-being before his personal gain. Second, to inform you that your candidate is not as trustworthy as you might think. And third, to persuade you to accept the offer I am about to make."

"That offer being?"

"I'd like to offer you a chance to do the right thing. The patriotic thing. Whether you know it or not, you're in a unique position to spare Washington all kinds of unpleasant scandal. If you can do what I am about to ask, perhaps you could even earn yourself a place on the President's team."

A place on the President's team? Gabrielle couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Ms. Tench, whatever you have in mind, I do not appreciate being black-mailed, coerced, or talked down to. I work for the senator's campaign because I believe in his politics. And if this is any indication of the way Zach Herney exerts political influence, I have no interest in being associated with him! If you've got something on Senator Sexton, then I suggest you leak it to the press. Frankly, I think this whole thing's a sham."

Tench gave a dreary sigh. "Gabrielle, your candidate's illegal funding is a fact. I'm sorry. I know you trust him." She lowered her voice. "Look, here's the point. The President and I will go public with the funding issue if we must, but it will get ugly on a grand scale. This scandal involves several major U.S. corporations breaking the law. A lot of innocent people will pay the price." She took a long drag and exhaled. "What the President and I are hoping for here... is some other way to discredit the senator's ethics. A way that is more contained... one in which no innocent parties get hurt." Tench set down her cigarette and folded her hands. "Simply put, we would like you to publicly admit that you had an affair with the senator."

Gabrielle's entire body went rigid. Tench sounded utterly certain of herself. Impossible, Gabrielle knew. There was no proof. The sex had happened only once, behind locked doors in Sexton's senatorial office. Tench has nothing. She's fishing. Gabrielle fought to retain her steady tone. "You assume a lot, Ms. Tench."

"Which? That you had an affair? Or that you would abandon your candidate?"

"Both."

Tench gave a curt smile and stood up. "Well, let's put one of those facts to rest right now, shall we?" She walked to her wall safe again and returned with a red manila folder. It was stamped with the White House seal. She unhooked the clasp, tipped the envelope over, and dumped the contents out on the desk in front of Gabrielle.

As dozens of color photographs spilled out onto the desk, Gabrielle saw her entire career come crashing down before her.

46

Outside the habisphere, the katabatic wind roaring down off the glacier was nothing like the ocean winds Tolland was accustomed to. On the ocean, wind was a function of tides and pressure fronts and came in gusting ebbs and flows. The katabatic, however, was a slave to simple physics-heavy cold air rushing down a glacial incline like a tidal wave. It was the most resolute gale force Tolland had ever experienced. Had it been coming at twenty knots, the katabatic would have been a sailor's dream, but at its current eighty knots it could quickly become a nightmare even for those on solid ground. Tolland found that if he paused and leaned backward, the stalwart squall could easily prop him up.

Making the raging river of air even more unnerving to Tolland was the slight downwind grade of the ice shelf. The ice was sloped ever so slightly toward the ocean, two miles away. Despite the sharp spikes on the Pitbull Rapido crampons attached to his boots, Tolland had the uneasy feeling that any misstep might leave him caught up in a gale and sliding down the endless icy slope. Norah Mangor's two-minute course in glacier safety now seemed dangerously inadequate.

Piranha Ice ax, Norah had said, fastening a lightweight T-shaped tool to each of their belts as they suited up in the habisphere. Standard blade, banana blade, semitubular blade, hammer, and adze. All you need to remember is, if anyone slips or gets caught up in a gust, grab your ax with one hand on the head and one on the shaft, ram the banana blade into the ice, and fall on it, planting your crampons.

With those words of assurance, Norah Mangor had affixed YAK belay harnesses to each of them. They all donned goggles, and headed out into the afternoon darkness.

Now, the four figures made their way down the glacier in a straight line with ten yards of belay rope separating each of them. Norah was in the lead position, followed by Corky, then Rachel, and Tolland as anchor.

As they moved farther away from the habisphere, Tolland felt a growing uneasiness. In his inflated suit, although warm, he felt like some kind of uncoordinated space traveler trekking across a distant planet. The moon had disappeared behind thick, billowing storm clouds, plunging the ice sheet into an impenetrable blackness. The katabatic wind seemed to be getting stronger by the minute, applying a constant pressure to Tolland's back. As his eyes strained through his goggles to make out the expansive emptiness around them, he began to perceive a true danger in this place. Redundant NASA safety precautions or not, Tolland was surprised the administrator had been willing to risk four lives out here instead of two. Especially when the additional two lives were that of a senator's daughter and a famous astrophysicist. Tolland was not surprised to feel a protective concern for Rachel and Corky. As someone who had captained a ship, he was used to feeling responsible for those around him.

"Stay behind me," Norah shouted, her voice swallowed by the wind. "Let the sled lead the way."

The aluminum sled on which Norah was transporting her testing gear resembled an oversized Flexible Flyer. The craft was prepacked with diagnostic gear and safety accessories she'd been using on the glacier over the past few days. All of her gear-including a battery pack, safety flares, and a powerful front-mounted spotlight-was bound under a secured, plastic tarp. Despite the heavy load, the sled glided effortlessly on long, straight runners. Even on the almost imperceptible incline, the sled moved downhill on its own accord, and Norah applied a gentle restraint, almost as if allowing the sled to lead the way.

Sensing the distance growing between the group and the habisphere, Tolland looked over his shoulder. Only fifty yards away, the pale curvature of the dome had all but disappeared in the blustery blackness.

"You at all worried about finding our way back?" Tolland yelled. "The habisphere is almost invisi-" His words were cut short by the loud hiss of a flare igniting in Norah's hand. The sudden red-white glow illuminated the ice shelf in a ten-yard radius all around them. Norah used her heel to dig a small impression in the surface snow, piling up a protective ridge on the upwind side of the hole. Then she rammed the flare into the indentation.

"High-tech bread crumbs," Norah shouted.

"Bread crumbs?" Rachel asked, shielding her eyes from the sudden light.

"Hansel and Gretel," Norah shouted. "These flares will last an hour-plenty of time to find our way back."

With that, Norah headed out again, leading them down the glacier-into the darkness once again.

47

Gabrielle Ashe stormed out of Marjorie Tench's office and practically knocked over a secretary in doing so. Mortified, all Gabrielle could see were the photographs-images-arms and legs intertwined. Faces filled with ecstasy.

Gabrielle had no idea how the photos had been taken, but she knew damn well they were real. They had been taken in Senator Sexton's office and seemed to have been shot from above as if by hidden camera. God help me. One of the photos showed Gabrielle and Sexton having sex directly on top of the senator's desk, their bodies sprawled across a scatter of official-looking documents.

Marjorie Tench caught up with Gabrielle outside the Map Room. Tench was carrying the red envelope of photos. "I assume from your reaction that you believe these photos are authentic?" The President's senior adviser actually looked like she was having a good time. "I'm hoping they persuade you that our other data is accurate as well. They came from the same source."

Gabrielle felt her entire body flushing as she marched down the hall. Where the hell is the exit?

Tench's gangly legs had no trouble keeping up. "Senator Sexton swore to the world that you two are platonic associates. His televised statement was actually quite convincing." Tench motioned smugly over her shoulder. "In fact, I have a tape in my office if you'd like to refresh your memory?"

Gabrielle needed no refresher. She remembered the press conference all too well. Sexton's denial was as adamant as it was heartfelt.

"It's unfortunate," Tench said, sounding not at all disappointed, "but Senator Sexton looked the American people in the eye and told a bald-faced lie. The public has a right to know. And they will know. I'll see to it personally. The only question now is how the public finds out. We believe it's best coming from you."

Gabrielle was stunned. "You really think I'm going to help lynch my own candidate?"

Tench's face hardened. "I am trying to take the high ground here, Gabrielle. I'm giving you a chance to save everyone a lot of embarrassment by holding your head high and telling the truth. All I need is a signed statement admitting your affair."

Gabrielle stopped short. "What!"

"Of course. A signed statement gives us the leverage we need to deal with the senator quietly, sparing the country this ugly mess. My offer is simple: Sign a statement for me, and these photos never need to see the light of day."

"You want a statement?"

"Technically, I would need an affidavit, but we have a notary here in the building who could-"

"You're crazy." Gabrielle was walking again.

Tench stayed at her side, sounding more angry now. "Senator Sexton is going down one way or another, Gabrielle, and I'm offering you a chance to get out of this without seeing your own naked ass in the morning paper! The President is a decent man and doesn't want these photos publicized. If you just give me an affidavit and confess to the affair on your own terms, then all of us can retain a little dignity."

"I'm not for sale."

"Well, your candidate certainly is. He's a dangerous man, and he's breaking the law."

"He's breaking the law? You're the ones breaking into offices and taking illegal surveillance pictures! Ever heard of Watergate?"

"We had nothing to do with gathering this dirt. These photos came from the same source as the SFF campaign-funding information. Someone's been watching you two very closely."

Gabrielle tore past the security desk where she had gotten her security badge. She ripped off the badge and tossed it to the wide-eyed guard. Tench was still on her tail.

"You'll need to decide fast, Ms. Ashe," Tench said as they neared the exit. "Either bring me an affidavit admitting you slept with the senator, or at eight o'clock tonight, the president will be forced to go public with everything-Sexton's financial dealings, the photos of you, the works. And believe me, when the public sees that you stood idly by and let Sexton lie about your relationship, you'll go down in flames right beside him."

Gabrielle saw the door and headed for it.

"On my desk by eight o'clock tonight, Gabrielle. Be smart." Tench tossed her the folder of photographs on her way out. "Keep them, sweetie. We've got plenty more."

48

Rachel Sexton felt a growing chill inside as she moved down the ice sheet into a deepening night. Disquieting images swirled in her mind-the meteorite, the phosphorescent plankton, the implications if Norah Mangor had made a mistake with the ice cores.

A solid matrix of freshwater ice, Norah had argued, reminding them all that she had drilled cores all around the area as well as directly over the meteorite. If the glacier contained saltwater interstices filled with plankton, she would have seen them. Wouldn't she? Nonetheless, Rachel's intuition kept returning to the simplest solution.

There are plankton frozen in this glacier.

Ten minutes and four flares later, Rachel and the others were approximately 250 yards from the habisphere. Without warning, Norah stopped short. "This is the spot," she said, sounding like a water-witch diviner who had mystically sensed the perfect spot to drill a well.

Rachel turned and glanced up the slope behind them. The habisphere had long since disappeared into the dim, moonlit night, but the line of flares was clearly visible, the farthest one twinkling reassuringly like a faint star. The flares were in a perfectly straight line, like a carefully calculated runway. Rachel was impressed with Norah's skills.

"Another reason we let the sled go first," Norah called out when she saw Rachel admiring the line of flares. "The runners are straight. If we let gravity lead the sled and we don't interfere, we're guaranteed to travel in a straight line."

"Neat trick," Tolland yelled. "Wish there were something like that for the open sea."

This IS the open sea, Rachel thought, picturing the ocean beneath them. For a split second, the most distant flame caught her attention. It had disappeared, as if the light had been blotted out by a passing form. A moment later, though, the light reappeared. Rachel felt a sudden uneasiness. "Norah," she yelled over the wind, "did you say there were polar bears up here?"

The glaciologist was preparing a final flare and either did not hear or was ignoring her.

"Polar bears," Tolland yelled, "eat seals. They only attack humans when we invade their space."

"But this is polar bear country, right?" Rachel could never remember which pole had bears and which had penguins.

"Yeah," Tolland shouted back. "Polar bears actually give the Arctic its name. Arktos is Greek for bear."

Terrific. Rachel gazed nervously into the dark.

"Antarctica has no polar bears," Tolland said. "So they call it Anti-arktos."

"Thanks, Mike," Rachel yelled. "Enough talk of polar bears."

He laughed. "Right. Sorry."

Norah pressed a final flare into the snow. As before, the four of them were engulfed in a reddish glow, looking bloated in their black weather suits. Beyond the circle of light emanating from the flare, the rest of the world became totally invisible, a circular shroud of blackness engulfing them.

As Rachel and the others looked on, Norah planted her feet and used careful overhand motions to reel the sled several yards back up the slope to where they were standing. Then, keeping the rope taut, she crouched and manually activated the sled's talon brakes-four angled spikes that dug into the ice to keep the sled stationary. That done, she stood up and brushed herself off, the rope around her waist falling slack.

"All right," Norah shouted. "Time to go to work."

The glaciologist circled to the downwind end of the sled and began unfastening the butterfly eyelets holding the protective canvas over the gear. Rachel, feeling like she had been a little hard on Norah, moved to help by unfastening the rear of the flap.

"Jesus, NO!" Norah yelled, her head snapping up. "Don't ever do that!"

Rachel recoiled, confused.

"Never unfasten the upwind side!" Norah said. "You'll create a wind sock! This sled would have taken off like an umbrella in a wind tunnel!"

Rachel backed off. "I'm sorry. I... "

She glared. "You and space boy shouldn't be out here."

None of us should, Rachel thought.

Amateurs, Norah seethed, cursing the administrator's insistence on sending Corky and Sexton along. These clowns are going to get someone killed out here. The last thing Norah wanted right now was to play baby-sitter.

"Mike," she said, "I need help lifting the GPR off the sled."

Tolland helped her unpack the Ground Penetrating Radar and position it on the ice. The instrument looked like three miniature snowplow blades that had been affixed in parallel to an aluminum frame. The entire device was no more than a yard long and was connected by cables to a current attenuator and a marine battery on the sled.

"That's radar?" Corky asked, yelling over the wind.

Norah nodded in silence. Ground Penetrating Radar was far more equipped to see brine ice than PODS was. The GPR transmitter sent pulses of electromagnetic energy through the ice, and the pulses bounced differently off substances of differing crystal structure. Pure freshwater froze in a flat, shingled lattice. However, seawater froze in more of a meshed or forked lattice on account of its sodium content, causing the GPR pulses to bounce back erratically, greatly diminishing the number of reflections.

Norah powered up the machine. "I'll be taking a kind of echo-location cross-sectional image of the ice sheet around the extraction pit," she yelled. "The machine's internal software will render a cross section of the glacier and then print it out. Any sea ice will register as a shadow."

"Printout?" Tolland looked surprised. "You can print out here?"

Norah pointed to a cable from the GPR leading to a device still protected under the canopy. "No choice but to print. Computer screens use too much valuable battery power, so field glaciologists print data to heat-transfer printers. Colors aren't brilliant, but laser toner clumps below neg twenty. Learned that the hard way in Alaska."

Norah asked everyone to stand on the downhill side of the GPR as she prepared to align the transmitter such that it would scan the area of the meteorite hole, almost three football fields away. But as Norah looked back through the night in the general direction from which they had come, she couldn't see a damn thing. "Mike, I need to align the GPR transmitter with the meteorite site, but this flare has me blinded. I'm going back up the slope just enough to get out of the light. I'll hold my arms in line with the flares, and you adjust the alignment on the GPR."

Tolland nodded, kneeling down beside the radar device.

Norah stamped her crampons into the ice and leaned forward against the wind as she moved up the incline toward the habisphere. The katabatic today was much stronger than she'd imagined, and she sensed a storm coming in. It didn't matter. They would be done here in a matter of minutes. They'll see I'm right. Norah clomped twenty yards back toward the habisphere. She reached the edge of the darkness just as the belay rope went taut.

Norah looked back up the glacier. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the line of flares slowly came into view several degrees to her left. She shifted her position until she was perfectly lined up with them. Then she held her arms out like a compass, turning her body, indicating the exact vector. "I'm in line with them now!" she yelled.

Tolland adjusted the GPR device and waved. "All set!"

Norah took a final look up the incline, grateful for the illuminated pathway home. As she looked out, though, something odd occurred. For an instant, one of the nearest flares entirely disappeared from view. Before Norah could worry that it was dying out, the flare reappeared. If Norah didn't know better, she would assume something had passed between the flare and her location. Certainly nobody else was out here... unless of course the administrator had started to feel guilty and sent a NASA team out after them. Somehow Norah doubted it. Probably nothing, she decided. A gust of wind had momentarily killed the flame.

Norah returned to the GPR. "All lined up?"

Tolland shrugged. "I think so."

Norah went over to the control device on the sled and pressed a button. A sharp buzz emanated from the GPR and then stopped. "Okay," she said. "Done."

"That's it?" Corky said.

"All the work is in setup. The actual shot takes only a second."

Onboard the sled, the heat-transfer printer had already begun to hum and click. The printer was enclosed in a clear plastic covering and was slowly ejecting a heavy, curled paper. Norah waited until the device had completed printing, and then she reached up under the plastic and removed the printout. They'll see, she thought, carrying the printout over to the flare so that everyone could see it. There won't be any saltwater.

Everyone gathered around as Norah stood over the flare, clutching the printout tightly in her gloves. She took a deep breath and uncurled the paper to examine the data. The image on the paper made her recoil in horror.

"Oh, God!" Norah stared, unable to believe what she was looking at. As expected, the printout revealed a clear cross section of the water-filled meteorite shaft. But what Norah had never expected to see was the hazy grayish outline of a humanoid form floating halfway down the shaft. Her blood turned to ice. "Oh God... there's a body in the extraction pit."

Everyone stared in stunned silence.

The ghostlike body was floating head down in the narrow shaft. Billowing around the corpse like some sort of cape was an eerie shroudlike aura. Norah now realized what the aura was. The GPR had captured a faint trace of the victim's heavy coat, what could only be a familiar, long, dense camel hair.

"It's... Ming," she said in a whisper. "He must have slipped...."

Norah Mangor never imagined that seeing Ming's body in the extraction pit would be the lesser of the two shocks the printout would reveal, but as her eyes traced downward in the shaft, she saw something else.

The ice beneath the extraction shaft...

Norah stared. Her first thought was that something had gone wrong with the scan. Then, as she studied the image more closely, an unsettling realization began to grow, like the storm gathering around them. The paper's edges flapped wildly in the wind as she turned and looked more intently at the printout.

But... that's impossible!

Suddenly, the truth came crashing down. The realization felt like it was going to bury her. She forgot all about Ming.

Norah now understood. The saltwater in the shaft! She fell to her knees in the snow beside the flare. She could barely breathe. Still clutching the paper in her hands, she began trembling.

My God... it didn't even occur to me.

Then, with a sudden eruption of rage, she spun her head in the direction of the NASA habisphere. "You bastards!" she screamed, her voice trailing off in the wind. "You goddamned bastards!"

In the darkness, only fifty yards away, Delta-One held his CrypTalk device to his mouth and spoke only two words to his controller. "They know."