But if either woman-the one in the trench coat or the one in furs-heard, they gave no sign. Instead, they walked past, mounted the metal steps of the gleaming trailer, slipped inside, and closed the door heavily behind them.
14
All day the temperature crept slowly upward, past ten degrees Fahrenheit, then twenty, causing Conti to scramble his film crews for shooting a flurry of snow-covered landscapes, just in case. Under brilliant sunlight, the mood of the documentary team improved noticeably as military-grade parkas were traded for woolen sweaters and down jackets. From the direction of Mount Fear, the sharp cracking and booming noises returned as the face of the glacier began calving away once again. Gonzalez deployed his team of army engineers to replace bad bearings that had caused one of the generators to seize up. After lunch, the bulk of the local roustabouts-their initial construction work completed-were ferried south to Anchorage in two cargo helicopters, not to return until the shooting was complete. Only Creel, the burly crew foreman who looked like he consumed steel bolts for breakfast, remained on the base. Around three in the afternoon, Ashleigh Davis emerged from her über-trailer, surveyed the surrounding works with distaste, and then set off for the base-accompanied by her personal assistant in the trench coat-apparently to be briefed by Conti.
After dinner, Marshall returned to the lab where he’d spent the day hard at work, seeing no one. With the bulk of the documentary staff out of doors preparing for the following day’s broadcast, the base had been relatively quiet and he’d had few distractions. Now he was bent over an examination table, so engrossed in his work that he didn’t hear the lab door open softly. He didn’t realize he had company, in fact, until a feminine voice over his shoulder began to intone:
“And soft they danced from the Polar sky and swept in primrose haze;
And swift they pranced with their silver feet, and pierced with a blinding blaze.
They danced a cotillion in the sky; they were rose and silver shod;
It was not good for the eyes of man-’twas a sight for the eyes of God.”
He straightened and turned around. Kari Ekberg was standing there, leaning against a table, dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
He quoted in return:
“They writhed like a brood of angry snakes, hissing and sulphur pale;
Then swift they changed to a dragon vast, lashing a cloven tail.”
“So,” he said. “They’re out again?”
“And how.”
“You know, ever since I got here and first saw those lights, I’ve been waiting for somebody to quote Robert Service. Didn’t think it would be you.”
“I’ve loved his stuff ever since my older brother scared me half to death, reading ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’ aloud in a pup tent by the glow of a flashlight.”
“Guess my story’s pretty much the same.” He glanced at his watch. “My God. Ten o’clock.” He stretched, glanced back up at her. “I’d have thought you’d be rushing around with all sorts of last-minute details.”
She shook her head. “I’m the field producer, remember? I do the advance work, make sure everybody knows their dance steps. Once the talent hits the ground I pretty much take a backseat and watch it unfold.”
The talent, Marshall thought, recalling the non-encounter he’d witnessed between Ekberg and Ashleigh Davis that morning.
“And you,” she said. “I haven’t seen you all day. What grand discoveries have you made?”
“We paleoecologists don’t go in for grand discoveries. We just try to answer questions, fill in the dark corners.”
“Then why work so late? It’s not like all this is going away.” And she waved a hand roughly in the direction of the glacier.
“Actually, it’s going away a lot faster than you might think.” He turned to the table, picked up a small yellow flower. “I found this just outside the perimeter wall this morning, poking up out of the snow. Ten years ago, the northerly range of this flower was a hundred miles south. That’s how much global warming has changed things in just a decade.”
“But I thought global warming helped your work.”
“Glacial melt helps me collect more samples, more quickly. I can collect everything from the face of a melting glacier-pollen, insects, pine-tree seeds, even atmospheric bubbles for sampling the amount of CO2 in ancient air. It beats the hell out of drilling ice cores. But that doesn’t mean I’m enthusiastic about global warming. Scientists are supposed to be objective.”
She looked at him, wry smile deepening. “And is that what you are? Objective?”
He hesitated. Then he sighed. “If you want to know the truth…no. Global warming scares the hell out of me. But I’m no activist. It’s just that I understand the consequences better than most. Already we’re losing control of the situation. The earth is remarkably resilient, she’s hugely capable of repairing herself. But this warming trend is accelerating too quickly, and a hundred chain reactions are under way-” He stopped, laughed quietly. “I’m supposed to be neutral on the topic. If Sully heard me talking like this, he’d have my head.”
“I’m not telling. I appreciate your speaking from the heart.”
He shrugged. “Actually, it’s pretty ironic. In the short term I benefit from the glacial melt. But once the glacier is gone, all the evidence I need for my research will be gone with it. Everything will be washed into the ocean. This is my one best chance to study the glacier, collect specimens.”
“Hence your burning the midnight oil. Sorry to barge in.”
“You kidding? I appreciate the visit. Anyway, I’m not the only one who’s busy. Look at you: asking questions, doing the legwork, making the star look good. A star who, by the way, doesn’t seem particularly grateful for all your hard work.”
She made a face but refused to be drawn into the line of chat. “We field producers have our crosses to bear, just like you do.” She glanced over. “You play?” And she pointed at a MIDI keyboard that was leaning against the far wall.
Marshall nodded. “Blues and jazz, mostly.”
“Are you any good?”
He laughed. “Good enough, I guess. Couldn’t make a living at it, but I play in the house band for a club back in Woburn. Mostly I love tweaking synthesizers. These days, of course, you don’t have to anymore-the sounds are all pre-rolled, you just select the waveform you want from a computer menu-but growing up I loved manipulating oscillators and filters. Built my own from scratch.”
“You’ll have to play for us sometime.” She motioned to the door. “Guess I’d better get back outside. I set up a segment about the northern lights a little while ago, and Emilio’s probably filming it by now.”
Marshall rose. “I’ll come along, if that’s all right.”
Up in the weather chamber, Marshall noticed the thermometer read twenty-eight degrees. He shrugged into his lightweight parka, then followed Ekberg through the staging area, out of the base, and into a scene of controlled pandemonium. Despite the late hour, the apron was alive with sound and light. Grips were arranging camera stands and moving large trusses into position around the vault, preparing for the next day’s shooting. Not far from Davis ’s trailer, a gaffer was setting up a sun gun to add light to the impending segment. The soundman was in animated conference with Fortnum. Wolff, the network liaison, stood motionless in the shadow of the Sno-Cat, hands in pockets, observing the scene silently. And a dozen others were just hanging around in small groups, staring up at the night sky.
Marshall looked upward, following their gaze. What he saw took his breath away. He’d assumed that the bright illumination around him was all artificial: instead, he saw it came from the most bizarre and spectacular display of aurora borealis he’d ever witnessed. The entire sky was ablaze with layers of undulating light. It seemed to have corporeal form, a viscous, mercurylike glow that crawled slowly across the heavens. It hung so low over his head that Marshall felt a crazy urge to duck. It was a color that he found hard to describe: an incredibly rich, dark crimson with a haunting, faintly radioactive glow.