blankets pulled military tight; a flat metal tray was folded down from the wall between them. There was one overhead light fixture, burning brightly in a frosted globe, and a plywood door that led to the head; Michael could smell the mildew.
�Is this the deluxe cabin?� Michael joked, and Kazinski laughed.
�Yes, sir. We save this one for visiting dignitaries only.�
�We'll take it.�
�Good decision there. Last two berths on board, sir.�
Darryl, fortunately, didn't seem to mind, either. As soon as Kazinski left, he unzipped one of his bags and started tossing some things onto the bunk on the right. �Say,� he said to Michael, stopping for a second, �did you want that one?�
Michael shook his head. �It's all yours.� He slung his backpack off his shoulder and onto the cot. �But if they leave us chocolates on our pillows at night, I want mine.�
While Darryl unpacked, Michael dug out one of his digital cameras� the Canon S80, good for down-and-dirty wide-angle shots�and went up on deck. The Constellation had left the dock, and was passing slowly southeast down the Beagle Channel, named after HMS Beagle, the very ship that had carried Charles Darwin into those waters in 1834. The air temperature wasn't bad, maybe thirty-six or thirty-seven degrees, and since the ship was still in a relatively protected waterway, the wind was mild. Michael was able to get off a few shots without worrying about gloves and without his fingers going numb. He probably wouldn't be using these for the piece anyway, but he always liked to have a few photos recording every important phase of his trip. He used them as memory aids when it came to the writing part, and it never failed to surprise him that something he remembered one way would show up quite differently when he looked at the photos. The mind could play a lot of tricks on you, he had learned.
The port had slipped into the distance, and the coastline was dusted with a pale green cover of moss and lichen. Patagonian Indians had once populated the wind-ravaged country, and when Ferdinand Magellan, searching for a sheltered westward route in 1520, had seen their burning campfires dotting the barren hills and shore, he had dubbed it Tierra del Fuego, or �The Land of Fire.� There was nothing fiery, or warm, about it now, and certainly no sign of the original Patagonians; they had been decimated by disease and the usurpation of their home by the European explorers. The only signs of life that Michael could see onshore were flocks of snowy petrels, darting among the scoured cliffsides, tending their nests and feeding their young. When his fingers got too cold to handle thecamera anymore, he tucked it back in his parka, zipped the pocket closed, and simply leaned over the rail.
The water below was a hard, dark blue, and broke from the sides of the ship in a constant curling motion. Michael had been reading up on the Antarctic ever since getting the assignment from Gillespie, and he knew that this ice-free water wouldn't last long. As soon as they left the channel and entered the Drake Passage�and Cape Horn�the sea would become the roughest on earth. Even now, in the southern hemisphere's summer, icebergs would pose a constant threat. He was actually looking forward to their appearance. Photographing bergs and glaciers, bringing out the delicate hues that ranged from a blinding white to a deep lavender, was an artistic and technical challenge of the first order. And Michael liked a challenge.
He'd been standing there for some time before he became aware of a fellow passenger also at the rail�a black woman with braided hair, bundled up in a long, green down coat. He wondered how long she'd been there. She was maybe twenty feet away, and fumbling with her own camera. From where he stood, Michael thought it looked like a Nikon 35 mm. She was aiming at the water�a couple of sea lions had just popped up, their sleek black heads
�Is this the deluxe cabin?� Michael joked, and Kazinski laughed.
�Yes, sir. We save this one for visiting dignitaries only.�
�We'll take it.�
�Good decision there. Last two berths on board, sir.�
Darryl, fortunately, didn't seem to mind, either. As soon as Kazinski left, he unzipped one of his bags and started tossing some things onto the bunk on the right. �Say,� he said to Michael, stopping for a second, �did you want that one?�
Michael shook his head. �It's all yours.� He slung his backpack off his shoulder and onto the cot. �But if they leave us chocolates on our pillows at night, I want mine.�
While Darryl unpacked, Michael dug out one of his digital cameras� the Canon S80, good for down-and-dirty wide-angle shots�and went up on deck. The Constellation had left the dock, and was passing slowly southeast down the Beagle Channel, named after HMS Beagle, the very ship that had carried Charles Darwin into those waters in 1834. The air temperature wasn't bad, maybe thirty-six or thirty-seven degrees, and since the ship was still in a relatively protected waterway, the wind was mild. Michael was able to get off a few shots without worrying about gloves and without his fingers going numb. He probably wouldn't be using these for the piece anyway, but he always liked to have a few photos recording every important phase of his trip. He used them as memory aids when it came to the writing part, and it never failed to surprise him that something he remembered one way would show up quite differently when he looked at the photos. The mind could play a lot of tricks on you, he had learned.
The port had slipped into the distance, and the coastline was dusted with a pale green cover of moss and lichen. Patagonian Indians had once populated the wind-ravaged country, and when Ferdinand Magellan, searching for a sheltered westward route in 1520, had seen their burning campfires dotting the barren hills and shore, he had dubbed it Tierra del Fuego, or �The Land of Fire.� There was nothing fiery, or warm, about it now, and certainly no sign of the original Patagonians; they had been decimated by disease and the usurpation of their home by the European explorers. The only signs of life that Michael could see onshore were flocks of snowy petrels, darting among the scoured cliffsides, tending their nests and feeding their young. When his fingers got too cold to handle thecamera anymore, he tucked it back in his parka, zipped the pocket closed, and simply leaned over the rail.
The water below was a hard, dark blue, and broke from the sides of the ship in a constant curling motion. Michael had been reading up on the Antarctic ever since getting the assignment from Gillespie, and he knew that this ice-free water wouldn't last long. As soon as they left the channel and entered the Drake Passage�and Cape Horn�the sea would become the roughest on earth. Even now, in the southern hemisphere's summer, icebergs would pose a constant threat. He was actually looking forward to their appearance. Photographing bergs and glaciers, bringing out the delicate hues that ranged from a blinding white to a deep lavender, was an artistic and technical challenge of the first order. And Michael liked a challenge.
He'd been standing there for some time before he became aware of a fellow passenger also at the rail�a black woman with braided hair, bundled up in a long, green down coat. He wondered how long she'd been there. She was maybe twenty feet away, and fumbling with her own camera. From where he stood, Michael thought it looked like a Nikon 35 mm. She was aiming at the water�a couple of sea lions had just popped up, their sleek black heads
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