Halfway back to Shacktown, as they were passing over a heavily fractured region, Al saw a long dark streak cutting at an angle across a field of high sastrugi. They went down for a closer look, but Al knew what it was: a crashed Hercules.
There was not much left of it but a spray of blackened metal fragments half-melted into the ice. Only the tail section was intact, and the letters RNZAF were clearly visible. Debris was strewn for a couple of kilometres; Al circled the site three times at low altitude, but no survivors could be seen.
“Wouldn’t expect any in a hit like that,” he mumbled. “Well, Max, that was our rescue party.”
“How do you know?”
“They were on a course for Shacktown, and they went down less than thirty-six hours ago — there was hardly any drift on the wreckage.”
“Why did they crash?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some mechanical problem — they probably tried to set down for repairs and ploughed into the sastrugi. Something like that.” His voice shook a little, and he looked sadly down at the crash for one last time. “They deserved better than that.”
Penny and Steve lay amiably in each other’s arms in their new cubicle. It was at the end of the bunkhouse, next to the Dolans’, and as private as any room in the building could be. Still, they talked in murmurs — partly to avoid disturbing Suzy, but mostly for the pleasure of it. It was the evening of Saturday, February 9.
“It hurts when you kiss me,” she complained.
“I’m sorry. Can’t get affectionate without getting rough.” He kissed her again, very gently. “Poor old Pen. That’s the worst sunburn I’ve ever seen.”
“Yours is almost as bad.”
“I know. We must look like a couple of amorous pomegranates.” His nose was blistered and peeling, and his cheeks — what little had been exposed between his beard and his sunglasses — were almost maroon.
“Oh well,” he sighed. “It must be the same for a lot of people.”
“Why — the ozone?”
“Yes.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Millions of people must have been badly burned by now — worse than we are. Especially in the tropics, but everywhere. God knows what’s happening to animals and insects.” He touched her hand very gently. “Frostbite hurt?”
“A lot.” She pulled the hand out of their sleeping bag. “Jesus, look how it’s peeling. Steve — are we really going to have to winter over?”
“Looks like it.” He didn’t sound disturbed. “Max’s photos made it seem real — even more than watching the surge.” The still-damp photographs of the Ross Island eruption had been the subject of a long, grim meeting in the lounge that evening.
“But they’ve got to send more planes,” Penny said.
“Mm — not so sure,” he mumbled sleepily. “They’d have to fly in dangerous weather, with no radio, and no good landing zone between Christchurch and here. The Kiwis have sent one plane and it hasn’t come back — for all they know, it picked us up and crashed at sea.” After a moment he went on. “They probably have enough to worry about at home, and not just the ultraviolet. The surge must have caused some bad tsunamis, and maybe the volcano did, too. Every coastal city in New Zealand would be hit — just about every city around the whole Pacific, for that matter.”
“Well — they’ll still want to know what’s happened down here.”
“Eventually. Anyway, so what? It’s not so bad. We’re through the worst of it, and there’s plenty to study.” He grinned. “You’ll get a book out of it.”
“If it’s not ancient history by the time we get out of here.” She felt annoyed by his acceptance of their predicament: it seemed unpleasantly stolid and passive of him to regard the disaster as just something to be studied. But it was so good to be in bed with him, with no need for long underwear, that she swallowed her resentment almost at once.
Next door Suzy heard the rhythmic creaking of the bunk and felt an annoying stab of envy and self-pity. Poor old Terry was lying in pain in the infirmary, and all she could think of was sex. She put in her earplugs, turned over and went unhappily to sleep. Jeanne and Will, further down the corridor, were also about to make love.
“It’ll sound crass and unromantic, Jeanne, but I’m worried about something.”
“You’re afraid I’ll get pregnant?”
“Yes.”
She chuckled and patted his face. “Don’t worry, love. Don’t worry.”
Something in her voice surprised him: a mixture of fright and amusement. “What—”
“I’m already pregnant.”
“Are you, now.”
“Please don’t be angry with me, Will. I couldn’t stand that.”
“Oh, I’m not angry, but I must say I’m impressed.”
“Impressed by what? Women do get pregnant, you know.”
“Not and march twenty kilometres over the Shelf from a wrecked helicopter.”
“Not if they’ve got no choice.” But she felt flattered.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell us?”
“I thought I could manage all right. And I didn’t want to be fussed over, or make everyone feel they ought to slow down for my sake.”
“Och, you’ve mad. Mad. The worst machos are always women.”
Later, he drowsily asked: “And who’s the father?”
“No one here. A fellow in Christchurch. Old school chum. We spent a couple of days together before Christmas.”
The fire-watch patroller clumped down the corridor. Don Treadwell’s death-rattle snore changed pitch.
“Damn silly of me, really. I missed my period, and felt ill, and all that kind of thing, but I figured I might just as well get on with my work and worry about everything else when I got back home. And then — everything happened, and I got scared. And I needed you. Does that sound awful?”
“No. I think I’m complimented. But you’ll have to tell Katerina, you know. And no arguments — you’ll do what she tells you. You know — if we don’t evacuate — if we’re stuck here till spring — when is the baby due?”
“September, I reckon.”
“You could be the mother of the first native-born Antarctican.”
Hugh Adams lay staring in the darkness. Easy does it. Get upset and you’ll only take longer to get back on your feet. And you’re enough of a nuisance now.
He went on staring at the dark until he fell asleep.
Ben Whitcumb sat up drinking beer and reading in the lounge. Gordon Ellerslee, half-drunk, swayed in from the mess hall.
“Hey there, ol’ Benny Rabbit, whatcha readin’?”
“Some mystery.”
“You look kinda depressed. Something eatin’ you?”
“No, no. Just tired. Too tired to sleep.”
“Whatcha think of all this sex and lust and general wick-dipping we got going on around this here scientific research station?”
“I’ve got enough to worry about without that.”
“You sound kinda pissed off, Benny Rabbit. I’ll bet you’re jealous as hell.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben snapped.
“Big Red, who else? Man, just think what she must be doin’ to old Steve right about now. Mm-mm! Makes you wish you’d gone in for seismology, doesn’t it?” Gordon laughed. “Gotta admit Steve sure knows how to make the earth move, eh?”
Ben closed his book and stood up. “Thanks, Gord. You’re making me sleepy already.”
A few hours later Colin Smith sat in the dome, watching the sun slide above the horizon. The sky was cloudless, but brilliantly tinted in shades of red, pink, orange and yellow. The ice and the mountains reflected the colours, which changed almost from second to second. The dust of Erebus was already widely scattered across the Ross Sea.
The sun, rising through crimson haze, was a sharp-edged yellow disc. They were mottled regions all over it, of a darker yellow with a tinge of brown. Colin watched in silence, absently aware that his whole body was shaking. He had never before seen sunspots with his own unaided eyes.