‘What?’ Horsey asked.
‘That ride you put the money in. Back home. Oh, I wish we were home again, Daddy. I miss my kitty.’
‘Horsey is tired now,’ he said. The lump in Horsey’s throat felt like a stuck walnut. ‘Horsey wants to go sleep in the stable.’
‘Can we play that game? The one with the world in it?’
‘Sure, honey.’
Back in the cabin, they made a half-hearted attempt at playing the stupid game. Holly became frustrated and ornery. ‘How about another round of Bicycle Bunny?’ he suggested.
They read it in the bunk, huddled beneath blankets. After it was over, she said, ‘This book reminds me of something. Long ago, when I was very little, like three or something, you used to read me a book about the beach.’
‘Carrie of Cape Cod. We read it lots of times last fall.’
‘Remember the part about the Big Spoon?’
‘The Big Dipper. Yes.’
‘Could we go see the Big Dipper? I mean, now could we see it?’
‘All right,’ he said, dragging her scopas suit away from the tea party, ‘But you’ll have to wear this. It’s cold out there.’
‘No, no, that’s Alfred Scarecrow!’ she shrieked.
‘Here’s the deal, honey. If you don’t put this on, we can’t go see the Big Dipper. I’m going to wear one too.’
‘Birdie wants to come.’
‘Sure.’
He girded his daughter against the elements. The suit fit perfectly. She looked adorable in it, her round, glowing face popping from the gold collar. To compensate for the bullet-shattered glove, he wrapped her hand in silk strips torn from the bedsheets.
He scooped her up, carried her and Birdie through half a mile of corridor, pausing briefly to remove an electric lantern from a bulkhead and hook it around his wrist. Twenty risers spiraled from the navigation room to the first sail deck. At the door he stopped and said, ‘Honey, there’s something I want to ask.’
‘What?’
‘Do you know what’s happened to you?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘I don’t want to tell you.’
‘Please tell me.’
‘You know what’s happened.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I died.’
A thick stratum of snow covered the outside deck, sealing the missile doors. Ice flowed from the diving planes in silver sheets and drooped from the periscopes like the web of some monstrous Antarctic spider. Ragged bergs squeezed the hull from all sides, locking it tight against the barrier.
‘Oh, great!’ Holly said. ‘It’s been snowing! Look, Daddy, it’s been snowing!’
He did not want to tell her that it did not snow in Antarctica, that the crystals were simply redistributed by the winds.
She looked up. The stars were sharp and bright. ‘Is it there? Can we see the Big Dipper?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I think I see it.’
‘Honey, I just realized something. We’re in the Southern Hemisphere—’
‘Is that it?’ she asked, thrusting her stubby, insulated fingers heavenward.
He studied the sky. Amorphous clusters. Meaningless forms. ‘Yes, honey, I think that’s it.’
‘You’re just saying that! We can’t see the Big Dipper!’
‘I’m sorry, honey. I’m really sorry. We’re too far south, and—’
‘It’s okay, Daddy. Put me down.’ He lowered his arms, and she slid into the crusty snow. Groans filled the air as ice and hull ground against each other. ‘I love you, Daddy.’
‘I love you, too, Holly.’
‘Mommy couldn’t come,’ she said softly.
‘Yes. That’s very sad.’
‘We couldn’t see the Big Dipper.’
‘Yes. That’s sad too.’
A wind blew up, churning the snow, tossing iceballs against the sail. ‘Thank you for all the presents,’ she said. ‘I love that doll. This has been a great Christmas.’
‘It’s been the best Christmas ever,’ he said.
‘I have to go now.’
‘No! You can’t go!’
‘I really like that cooking set, and I had fun playing visitor with you. And thank you for Birdie. And be sure to take care of Jennifer. She gets her bottle at six o’clock midnight.’
‘Please stay, Holly! Please! You’re not allowed to go yet!’ He ripped a gob of wolverine hair out of his parka hood. ‘I need to tell you a bedtime story. It’s about an elf who casts a golden shadow. Please! So one day the elf’s uncle asked him to—’
‘Good-bye, Daddy.’
They hugged, squeezing so hard it should have hurt.
‘Please don’t go, Holly! Please!’
‘Good-bye, Daddy. I love you.’
‘Good-bye, darling. I love you so much. I love you so much.’
She worked free of his grip, coasted bum-down along the hull as if it were a sliding board. Her stovepipe hat fell off. Now George could hear snow crunching under her little boots. The starlight caught her golden suit, so that a figure made of phosphor moved across the barrier toward Lazarev. She clutched Birdie tighter, ran faster, and was soon swallowed by the darkness and the gale.
Vanity of vanities. George had actually believed he could save his species. And yet, despite the scale of his failure, he had not reverted to his old, unambitious ways. He expected things now. God owed him. Tirelessly, enterprisingly, he dashed across the Lazarev Ice Shelf. I’ll go to whomever Morning made that deal with, he thought. They’ll let me keep my child. They must.
His lantern was strong, more than equal to an Antarctic blizzard, and he had no trouble keeping Holly in view. She was only four, and unsteady, and burdened with a scopas suit and Birdie. He called her name. The wind threw it back in his face. Bits of ice sailed past, pelting his forehead, slicing his cheeks. He wished that he were unadmitted, so that his memories would be fogged, but instead the images all boasted a brutal clarity: Holly’s first trip to the zoo, Holly being a bug for Halloween…
The crevasses of Antarctica are predatory, hungry, lying in wait. Holly did not notice the great Novolazarevkaya Crevasse. One second she was running, the next she was gone, falling in a flash of golden scopas threads.
George cursed the crevasse aloud, vowing to defeat it as totally as Sverre’s navy had defeated the invalidated past. Already he was at the brink, throwing himself on his stomach, extending his lantern arm. The beam spilled downward, illuminating flying whorls of snow and a child’s figure pressed against the wall, her boots frozen to a feeble lip of ice. George saw two frightened green eyes, heard whimpering. His muscles and tendons creaked, nearly tearing apart as he fought for an extra inch of reach.
The tomb inscriber proved stronger than himself. He touched something soft, seized it. He yanked. Her silk-wrapped hand came forward, safe in his, but it was strangely, horribly weightless.
‘It wasn’t supposed to end this way!’ a voice shouted from out of the storm.
George stared at the awful object he was holding. The wrist was cut. A plastic tube poked through the crack. At the fractured elbow, ball bearings and copper wire protruded. The stump of the upper arm was a fountain of yellow hydraulic fluids; the technological blood gushed from rubber veins, spilled around steel bones, and dripped onto the Lazarev Ice Shelf.
Dressed in his diamond-patterned scopas suit, Theophilus Carter ambled into view. Icicles grew from his nostrils like tusks and drooped from the inside brim of his top hat like crystalline hair. His gloves were stuck to a teapot. In the murky distance, the lights of his itinerant shop (‘Remarkable Things for Human Bodies’) burned through the blizzard.