Henry Ogden and Connor MacFerran were nose to nose. The brawny Scottish geologist loomed over the shorter biologist. But Henry was not about to give ground. He stood with his hands on his hips, leaning forward, an angry Chihuahua before a pitbull.

Dr. Willig turned back to her so she could read his lips. “Here we go again. This is the third head butting since I came down here an hour ago.”

“I’d better see what’s going on,” Amanda decided reluctantly.

“Always the diplomat.”

“No, always the baby-sitter.” She left Dr. Willig and crossed to the warring researchers. They barely noted her arrival, continuing their argument.

“…not until all the specimens are collected. We’ve not even begun the photographs.” Henry had his face almost pressed against the geologist’s.

“You can’t hog all the friggin’ research time down here. That cliff is volcanic basalt with pure carboniferous intrusions. All I need to do is core a few samples.”

“How few?”

“No more than twenty.”

The biologist’s face darkened. “Are you mad? You’ll tear the whole thing down. Ruin who knows how much sensitive data.”

Amanda barely followed their discourse, missing much as she read their lips, but she gained as much information from the gestures and body postures. A fistfight was about to break out. She could smell the territorial bloom of testosterone.

“Boys,” she said calmly.

They glanced to her, to her crossed arms, to her stern expression. Each took a step back.

“What’s this all about?” she asked slowly.

Connor MacFerran answered first. His lips were harder to read because of his thick black beard. “We’ve been patient with the biology team. But we have just as much right to sample this discovery. An inclusion of this magnitude”—he waved to the cliff face—“is not the sole ownership of Dr. Ogden.”

Henry stated his case. “We’ve only had the one night to prep the site. Our collection is more delicate than the bulldozing techniques of the geologists. It’s a simple case of priority. My sampling won’t harm his specimens, but his sampling could irreparably damage mine.”

“That’s not true!” Though Amanda could not hear Connor’s voice rise, she caught it from the color of his cheeks and the way his chest puffed. “A couple cores in areas free of your damn molds and lichens won’t harm anything.”

“The dust…the noise…it could ruin everything.” Henry turned his full attention to Amanda. “I thought we had decided all this last night.”

She finally nodded. “Connor, Henry’s right. This cliff face has been here for fifty thousand years. I think it could last another couple of days for the biology team to collect their samples.”

“I need at least ten days,” Henry cut in.

“You have three.” She faced the broad-shouldered Scotsman, who wore a sloppy grin of satisfaction. “Then you can start collecting cores — but only where Henry says you can.”

The large man’s grin faded. “But—”

She turned away. It was the easiest way to cut someone off when you were deaf. You simply stopped looking at them. She faced Henry now. “And you, Henry…I suggest you concentrate on clearing out a section of cliff face within three days. Because I will authorize drilling in here by that time.”

“But—”

She turned her back on both of them and saw Dr. Willig grinning broadly at her. MacFerran stalked off in one direction, heading toward the tunnel exit. Henry marched off in the other, ready to harangue his underlings. That bit of détente should buy her at least twenty-four hours of strained peace between the biologists and geologists.

Dr. Willig crossed to her. “For a moment, I thought you were going to spank them.”

“They’d have enjoyed it too much.”

“Come.” The elderly Swede motioned. “You should see what Dr. Ogden is really protecting.”

He took her hand, like a father might a daughter. He led her toward a familiar cleft in the volcanic rock face. Her feet began to drag. “I’ve been in there already.”

“Yes, but have you seen what our argumentative scientist is doing?”

Curiosity kept her feet moving. The pair reached the opening in the cliff. This morning, Amanda had changed out of her thermal sailing suit and simply wore jeans, boots, wool sweater, and a borrowed Gore-Tex parka for her journey into the icy Crawl Space. As they reached the tunnel entrance, she finally noted how warm it was. A steady flow of humid air rolled from the mouth of the cleft.

Dr. Willig led the way, still holding her hand. “It is really quite amazing.”

“What is?” The warmth distracted her…as did the slightly rank odor carried on the damp flow of air. Water sluiced in small trickles over the rock under her boots. It dripped from the ceiling, too.

Within six steps, they reached the cave beyond the cleft. Like the greater cavern outside, this space had been invaded by modern technology. A second generator vibrated in a corner. Space heaters lined both walls, facing inward. Two light poles blazed in the center, illuminating the space in too great detail.

Yesterday evening, with only the single flashlight, the chamber had been spooky and lost in time. But now, under the glare of the halogen spots, the place had a clinical aspect.

As before, the dissected creature lay sprawled and staked across the room’s center. But rather than being frosted in ice, appearing old, it now glistened and dripped. The exposed organs wept in trickles and shone like fresh meat on a butcher’s block. It looked like the dissection had started only yesterday, rather than sixty years ago.

Beyond the carcass, through the sheen and flow of meltwater over their surfaces, the six large blocks of ice had become clear crystal. At the heart of each block lay a curled pale beast, nose tucked in the center, long, sinuous body wrapped around the head, then its thick tail around again.

“Does their sleeping shape remind you of anything?” Dr. Willig asked.

Amanda searched her nightmares and found no answers. She shook her head.

“Maybe it’s because of my Nordic heritage. It reminds me of some of the old Norse carvings of dragons. The great wyrms curled in on themselves. Noses touching tails. A symbol of the eternal circle.”

Amanda ran along the logic track of her friend. “You think some Vikings might have found these frozen beasts before. These…grendels?”

He shrugged. “They were the first polar explorers, crossing the North Atlantic to Iceland and glacier-shrouded Greenland. If there’s a clutch of these creatures here, who’s to say there are not others scattered throughout the frozen northlands.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“Just an idle thought.” He stared over at the melting blocks. “But it does raise some misgivings in my mind. Especially with all the death found here in the station.”

She glanced at him. Dr. Willig knew nothing about Level Four.

He continued, clarifying his point: “All those Russian scientists and staff personnel. It’s a tragedy. It makes you wonder what happened sixty years ago. Why the station was lost.”

Amanda sighed. She remembered her first cold steps into the tomb. All the bodies — some skeletal, as if starved; some clear suicides; others had met more violent ends. She could only imagine the madness that must have set in here.

“Remember,” she said, “the base was lost in the forties. Before the time of satellite communication. Before submarines had reached the North Pole, and before the tangle of Arctic currents was ever mapped. All it would’ve taken is a fierce summer storm, or a communication breakdown, or a mechanical failure in the base, or even a single, lost, resupply ship. Any of these mishaps could’ve resulted in the station’s loss. Back in the 1930s, the Arctic reaches were as remote as Mars is today.”

“It’s a tragedy, nonetheless.”

She nodded. “We may have more answers when the Russian delegation arrives in a few more days. If they’re cooperative, we might have a more complete story.” But Amanda knew of one detail the Russians would never be fully forthcoming about. How could they? There was no explanation to justify what had been found on Level Four.