There was a thin layer of snow when they arrived; their footprints are quite clear. They have two sleds with them. The mechanic is pulling one of them, Tørk and Verlaine the other.

They've headed up the slope to avoid the steep portals where the ice runs out to sea. The loose snow is a foot and a half deep. They've been taking turns stamping down a trail.

I put on my kamiks. I keep my eyes on the snow and simply concentrate on walking. I feel like a child again. We're going somewhere, I don't remember where, it's been a long journey, maybe many sinik; I start to stumble, I'm no longer one with my feet, they're walking by themselves, plodding, as if each step were a task to complete. Somewhere inside me I feel an urge to give up, to sit down and sleep.

Then my mother is behind me. She knows what's happening, she has known it for some time. She talks to me, she who is usually so taciturn. She gives me a box on the ear, part violence, part caress.

"What kind of wind is it, Smilla?"

"It's kanangnaq."

"That's wrong, Smilla, you're asleep."

"No, I'm not. The wind is faint and damp, the ice must have just started breaking up."

"Speak politely to your mother, Smilla. You've learned rudeness from qallunaaq."

We keep on going this way, and I wake up again. I know that we have to get there; long ago I grew too heavy for her to carry me.

I'm thirty-seven years old. Fifty years ago, that, was a full lifetime in Thule. But I've never grown up. I've never gotten used to walking alone. Somewhere deep inside I'm still hoping that someone will come up behind me and box my ear. My mother. Moritz. Some outside force.

I'm starting to stumble. I'm standing near the glacier. They paused here. They put crampons on their boots. Close up, I understand how the glacier got its name.

The wind has worn down its surface to a compact, slippery covering with no irregularities, like a white, fired ceramic glaze. Right in front of me it slides over a drop of about 160 feet. Here the surface of the ice is broken up into an ice fall. A network of gray, white, and grayish-blue steps. From a distance they seem quite regular; on closer inspection they form a labyrinth.

I can't tell which way they've headed. I can't see them, either. So I start walking. Their tracks are harder-to follow. But not impossible. The snow has settled on the horizontal steps; there they've left their mark. At one point, when I lose my bearings and begin searching in semicircles, I spot a yellow trace of urine from far away.

I start hallucinating and fragments of conversations come back to me. I say something to Isaiah. He answers. The mechanic is there, too.

"Smilla."

I walked three feet past him without seeing him. It's Tørk. He has been waiting for me. He has spoken my name so gently. Like the time he called me up, on the last night in my apartment.

He's alone. He has no sled and no baggage. Sitting there, he looks so colorful. Yellow boots. His red jacket casting a rosy glow across the snow around him. The turquoise band against his pale hair.

"I knew you would come. But I didn't know how. I saw you walking across the water."

As if we've been friends all along but had to hide it from the rest of the world.

"There was a layer of ice."

"Before that you walked through locked doors."

"I had a key."

He shakes his head. "For people with resources, the right events happen. They may look like coincidences, but they arise out of necessity. Katja and Ralf wanted to put the brakes on you in Copenhagen. But I saw possibilities. You would point out things that we'd overlooked.

That Ving and Loyen had overlooked. That people always overlook."

He hands me a climbing harness. I step into it and fasten it in front.

"But what about the Northern Light?" I ask. "And the fire?"

"Licht called Katja when he got the cassette. He tried to blackmail her. We had to do something. It was my fault that you got involved in that. I turned things over to Maurice and Verlaine. Verlaine has this primitive hatred of women."

He gives me the end of the rope. I make a figure-eight hitch. He hands me a short ice ax.

He goes first. He has a long, thin stick. He uses it to test the ground for crevasses. When he's fifty feet away, he speaks. The shiny walls around us create acoustics like those in a bathroom. Harsh and yet intimate, as if we were sitting in the bathtub together.

"Of Course, I've read the things you've written. Your passion for ice is certainly thought provoking."

He jabs his ice ax into the snow, wraps the rope around it, and carefully pulls in the rope as I follow him. When I reach him, he speaks again.

"What would your experts say about this glacier?" We gaze around us in the growing darkness. The question is difficult to answer.

"I don't know what to say. If it were ten times bigger, they might classify it as a very small ice calotte. If it were lower they would say it was a botu glacier. If the current and wind conditions had been slightly different, the drifting and deflation would have reduced it so severely within a month that they would say there wasn't any glacier here at all, just an island with a little snow on it. It's impossible to classify it."

I come up to him again, and he hands me the rope. I choose a belay stance, and he continues on. His natural movements are agile and methodical, but the ice makes them slightly fumbling, too, as with all Europeans. He resembles a blind man, practiced in his blindness, perfectly adapted to his stick, but still blind.

"The limited ability of science to explain things has:always interested me. My own field of biology is based on zoological and botanical systems of classification that have all collapsed. As a science; biology no longer has any foundation. What do you think about change?"

His question comes as a non sequitur. I follow him, and he winds up the woven double rope. We're connected by an umbilical cord, like mother and child.

"It's supposed to be the spice of life," I say.

He hands me his thermos. I take a sip. Hot tea with lemon. He bends down. On the snow there are some dark grains, crushed stone.

"Four and a half times ten to the ninth; 4.6 billion years. That's when the solar system began to assume its present form. The difficulty with the earth's geological history is that it can't be studied. There are no traces. Because since that time, since the time of Creation, rocks like these have gone through a countless number of metamorphoses. The same is true of the ice around us, the air, and the water. Their origins can no longer be traced. There are no substances on the earth that have preserved their original form. That's why meteorites are so interesting. They come from outside, they've escaped the transformation processes that Lovelock described in his theory about Gala. Their form goes back to the origin of the solar system. As a rule they consist of the first metals in the universe-iron and nickel-and silicates. Do you read fiction?"

I shake my head.

"That's too bad. The writers see where we're headed before the scientists do. What we discover in nature is not really a matter of what exists; what we find is determined by our ability to understand. Like Jules Verne's book The Hunt for a Meteor, about a meteorite that turns out to be the most valuable thing on earth. Or Wells's visions of other life forms. Or Piper's Uller Uprising, in which a special form of life is described. Bodies formed on the basis of inorganic substances, from silicates."

We've reached a flat, windswept plateau. A series of regular crevasses opens before us. We must have reached the ablation zone, that spot where the glacier's lower layers move up toward the surface. There's a knob of rock that has parted the flow of ice. I didn't notice it from below because it's some type of white stone. Now it gleams in the fading light.