“For years? How many?”
“I told you: I can’t remember. Oh all right. I met him seven years ago in the South Shetlands near the Antarctic.”
“What – ”
“Just be quiet and let me tell you! My God, where’s your patience, woman? Where was I? Ah yes, the South Shetland Islands. I was doing some research there and Ross was in charge of the camp. And he was the best I ever met.”
I hope Simon doesn’t hear that, thought Job.
“He had a massive reputation even then. He had worked for the Royal Society, the Royal Geographical Society, all of them . . .”
“But what did he do?”
“Basically, I suppose, he’s an organiser. In those days he was what Simon is now. He set up camps and ran them for us scientists. Helped us a lot, too.”
“Helped you?”
Pause. “You remember you told me only one man had come within five marks of our results at Oxford in more than ten years?”
“Yes.”
“Ross was the man who came that close.”
“You mean – my God, I had no idea! But then . . .”
“What is he doing as organiser instead of researcher? Look at him. Can you really see him sitting around with a microscope?”
“No. Under no circumstances.”
“Well, what apparently happened was that he went on a project to some godforsaken spot, and the leader of their expedition was hurt. Ross was the youngest and by far the least experienced, and yet he took over the whole expedition and brought them all safely through. I say that’s what apparently happened, because I could never get him to tell me. He doesn’t talk about his past at all. Insists on keeping everyone at arm’s length. I suppose that’s what makes him so good at command decisions: he’s never confused by personal feelings. Cold, you know? Strange man. Now I much prefer Simon: not nearly as efficient, not half the man he thinks he is, not a tenth the cold-weather man Ross was, but much more human. Likes a joke; loves a drink; that sort of thing: human.”
“You say ‘was’.”
“What?”
“ ‘Quick isn’t the cold-weather man Ross was.’ ”
“Oh yes, I see. No. This is the first time Ross has been out in five years. I don’t know what he’s like now. Seems to have gone downhill quite a lot.”
“Why?”
Pause.
“Is it something to do with his arm, and his wife, and . . . ?”
“Well yes, I suppose it is.”
“Simon told me about the expedition to the South Pole. Is that when he lost his arm?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“I think I will.”
“He won’t tell you.”
“I’ll risk it. Is that all?”
“No. There was an enquiry of course, when Ross got out of hospital, and it turned pretty nasty, from what I hear. Some of the missing men’s stuff was found on Ross, and he was actually accused of taking their food in order to survive himself. But Jeremiah made a deathbed testimony which was made public. Saved Ross’s reputation.”
“Saved him? You think he was guilty?”
“Well, I don’t know. Ross refused to say anything, you see. He’s never said anything about it to anyone, as far as I know.”
“So everybody thinks he’s guilty.”
“Many people wonder, yes.”
“Then what’s he doing with such an important job?”
“I told you, darling; he’s a genius. What he doesn’t know about surviving in the snow, he can easily guess. He’s a very valuable commodity, especially in these days when so much of worth seems to be hidden under snow and ice.”
“And yet you don’t trust him fully to take charge here?”
“Well, he’s been out of the snow for five years. And he hasn’t made much of a push. Anyway, it shouldn’t be too long now before we’re picked up. They talked to the people at Barrow before we crashed. And Simon knows what he’s doing . . .”
The conversation outside veered away from Ross as Quick joined the breakfast party.
Ross stirred; and woke. “I smell coffee.”
“Just going to get some,” said Job. “You’d better hurry, or it’ll be cold.”
“Just coming.”
Ross rolled over and pulled his shirt towards him. His left arm was wrapped in it. Job bent down to crawl through the wind-proof flap. Ross began to position his arm with dexterous ease. He was humming a tune.
Outside it was still bright, although the sun was low. The four of them were grouped round the fire tray, seated on the crates, sipping steaming coffee. On the pale flames sat a huge pan filled with a mess of ham and reconstituted eggs.
“I know,” said Kate as Job eyed it, “it looks terrible, but it’ll taste OK, I promise.”
“It looks great,” said Quick gallantly.
“After more than twenty-four hours without solid food, even my cooking would look good,” said Warren. “Coffee?”
Job picked up a cup from the pile of utensils on the lid of one of the food crates. Preston poured. Job drank it. It was hot, and black, and perfect.
“Is Mr. Ross all right?” asked Preston, his face concerned. “After last night . . .”
“He’s fine. Just coming.” Job stretched, his whole body stiff with bruises from the crushing grip of the polar bear. “If you have any sympathy to spare, save it for me.”
“I knew a lady once, who hugged like that,” said Warren, relishing the memory. “Ran a house of ill repute in Skagway . . .” Then he remembered he was sitting next to his daughter, and blushed.
Ross came out of the tent.
Kate, her face still warmed by a smile at her father’s embarrassment, felt her eyes drawn to the tattered sleeve, the buckled plastic and scarred metal of his arm. The black glove was gone now, and the plastic hand blackened by fire instead. All the unkind thoughts she had felt about Job carrying Ross’s bags, helping him with his coat like a servant, came back to mock her. Her eyes went up to his face, and he was smiling at her. She realised she was still smiling about her father: Ross thought she was smiling at him. She felt almost embarrassed and widened her smile a little.
“Coffee?” asked Preston.
“Please.”
His eyes left Kate, who smiled for a moment or two more. Ross pulled up a crate and sat on it carefully.
“That smells good,” he said, gesturing to the pan.
“All right,” said Kate, “you don’t have to tell me what it looks like. I know.”
“I wasn’t going to. I’ve never seen anything that looks like that.”
“I have,” said Warren, “but only under a microscope.”
“Much more of this,” said Kate, “and you’ll need a microscope to find your share.”
“Just like her mother: can’t take a joke.”
“But I’m sure,” said Kate, her voice like honey, “that the ladies of Skagway laugh ever so much.”
They all got plates from beside the cups, and ate with spoons. Kate was right: it tasted OK.
They ate in high spirits, as though merely out for a picnic. The evening was clear, deceptively sunny. The heavy clothing kept them warm enough. The sea lapped quietly, distantly. The wind was gentle, playful. The floe was really huge, and the ice lovely. The tall hills towered reliably close at hand, the tongue of ice reached out and out, away from them, substantial, solid, shining, nearly twenty acres of it. The surface of the ocean was dotted with other small floes, all of which were empty and still. In the far distance the pack shone brightly and insubstantially, like the smoke from a green flare. In the high bright sky, a plane passed, a tiny flash of intense light and a comet-tail of cloud; the echoes in the silence giving a whisper of its power.
“Tell us about your arm, Colin,” said Kate.
Ross, about to drink, looked at her speculatively over the rim of his cup. The old familiar wrench in his belly died almost immediately; the sudden tension around the fire did not emanate from him.
He swallowed. “No,” he said.
“No. Of course he won’t,” said Quick, bitterly, but without hysteria. “He doesn’t want you to stop smiling at him.”