remember that in future. A sure-fire remedy for ill-timed erections. He laughed at the thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“Can’t say, Miss French.”
“It’s ‘Sarah’. Now just concentrate on the face. Did he have any. . . distinguishing features? Large nose?
Facial hair?”
Henry remembered the man’s close-cropped beard, greying at the fringes, his coffee-coloured skin and large brown eyes. All these he described as thoroughly as he could recal.
Eventually Sarah put the computer on the table so he could see the screen.
“How’re we doin’, Henry?”
She had done a good job of reconstructing the image he saw in his memory. Even the parka looked right. But somehow the face didn’t remind Henry of the man who’d shot him.
He shook his head.
“Let’s save this guy,” said Sarah, “and go on to one of the others. Can you remember them?”
For the next hour Henry did his level best to conjure the faces of the men who’d assaulted him. The best he could come up with was three round-faced men in parkas, a Mediterranean, a Nord or a Brit with a red moustache, and a man who looked like an American or another Brit.
The door opened and Hazelton came in with coffee and sandwiches. “I hope you guys like ham salad. That’s all I could find. The coffee’s fresh, though. The general was wondering if. . .”
Sarah spun the laptop so the man could see the screen. “Look like anyone you know?” she said with a dangerous smile.
Hazelton looked at the screen. “I guess not. Well, uh, good luck. Tell us when. . .”
“Don’t worry. We’ll let you know,” said Sarah.
#
A long while later they were still no further along. Hazelton had appeared every hour on the hour. Finally Hayes himself opened the door.
“I just had a pleasant chat with President Kerry,” he said. “He was. . . inquiring why no images have been received by the FBI in Washington.”
“Trouble is, General,” said Sarah, “Henry here can’t give me much because he didn’t see much. I have three images and will radio what I have at zero eight hundred, but I don’t think it’ll help. Henry saw their faces only, and one of them wore shades.”
Hayes hung his head in disappointment. “Is that the best you can do?”
“Yes, sir.”
Henry looked up at the general. “I’m. . . we’re really doin’ our best, sir,” he said. “But all I saw was their faces. . . like she said. Hel, I’m lucky the nuke left me with any memory at all,” he added in frustration.
“What nuke?” said Sarah.
“Gibbs,” interposed the general, “I want you to try some more. We’ll radio what you have from the Glomar icebreaker in an hour.”
He disappeared with the slam of the door.
“Want another sandwich?” said Henry. “I could use some more coffee.”
“What nuke, Henry?”
For the next fifteen minutes he told the full story.
When he’d finished, Sarah sat wide-eyed. “So you were shot twice, left for dead on the ice, hiked fifty miles, and then got nuked ?”
“So far.”
She reflected on Henry’s experiences for a second, then asked, “What do you think will happen to the ice?”
“Me? I’m no expert,” said Henry. “I only work here.”
“You must have some kind of idea,” she protested.
“Tell me what you know.”
In truth, Henry had spent many a lonely hour out on the ice reading by lantern light the material available on the subject. For a layman he knew quite a lot about the deep ice. He had read that the Ross Ice Shelf was like a huge glacier. Vast flows of ancient ice, very deep, move slowly from the continent’s interior. Different kinds of ice move in different ways, so ice in one place can flow faster than ice in another; the why of it is still mostly guesswork. In truth, very little was known about the deep ice, because scientists had only recently had the tools or the money to probe its secrets.
“When you realize how deep the ice shelf is, considering its weight and all,” Henry told her,
“What’s so funny?”
“Can’t say, Miss French.”
“It’s ‘Sarah’. Now just concentrate on the face. Did he have any. . . distinguishing features? Large nose?
Facial hair?”
Henry remembered the man’s close-cropped beard, greying at the fringes, his coffee-coloured skin and large brown eyes. All these he described as thoroughly as he could recal.
Eventually Sarah put the computer on the table so he could see the screen.
“How’re we doin’, Henry?”
She had done a good job of reconstructing the image he saw in his memory. Even the parka looked right. But somehow the face didn’t remind Henry of the man who’d shot him.
He shook his head.
“Let’s save this guy,” said Sarah, “and go on to one of the others. Can you remember them?”
For the next hour Henry did his level best to conjure the faces of the men who’d assaulted him. The best he could come up with was three round-faced men in parkas, a Mediterranean, a Nord or a Brit with a red moustache, and a man who looked like an American or another Brit.
The door opened and Hazelton came in with coffee and sandwiches. “I hope you guys like ham salad. That’s all I could find. The coffee’s fresh, though. The general was wondering if. . .”
Sarah spun the laptop so the man could see the screen. “Look like anyone you know?” she said with a dangerous smile.
Hazelton looked at the screen. “I guess not. Well, uh, good luck. Tell us when. . .”
“Don’t worry. We’ll let you know,” said Sarah.
#
A long while later they were still no further along. Hazelton had appeared every hour on the hour. Finally Hayes himself opened the door.
“I just had a pleasant chat with President Kerry,” he said. “He was. . . inquiring why no images have been received by the FBI in Washington.”
“Trouble is, General,” said Sarah, “Henry here can’t give me much because he didn’t see much. I have three images and will radio what I have at zero eight hundred, but I don’t think it’ll help. Henry saw their faces only, and one of them wore shades.”
Hayes hung his head in disappointment. “Is that the best you can do?”
“Yes, sir.”
Henry looked up at the general. “I’m. . . we’re really doin’ our best, sir,” he said. “But all I saw was their faces. . . like she said. Hel, I’m lucky the nuke left me with any memory at all,” he added in frustration.
“What nuke?” said Sarah.
“Gibbs,” interposed the general, “I want you to try some more. We’ll radio what you have from the Glomar icebreaker in an hour.”
He disappeared with the slam of the door.
“Want another sandwich?” said Henry. “I could use some more coffee.”
“What nuke, Henry?”
For the next fifteen minutes he told the full story.
When he’d finished, Sarah sat wide-eyed. “So you were shot twice, left for dead on the ice, hiked fifty miles, and then got nuked ?”
“So far.”
She reflected on Henry’s experiences for a second, then asked, “What do you think will happen to the ice?”
“Me? I’m no expert,” said Henry. “I only work here.”
“You must have some kind of idea,” she protested.
“Tell me what you know.”
In truth, Henry had spent many a lonely hour out on the ice reading by lantern light the material available on the subject. For a layman he knew quite a lot about the deep ice. He had read that the Ross Ice Shelf was like a huge glacier. Vast flows of ancient ice, very deep, move slowly from the continent’s interior. Different kinds of ice move in different ways, so ice in one place can flow faster than ice in another; the why of it is still mostly guesswork. In truth, very little was known about the deep ice, because scientists had only recently had the tools or the money to probe its secrets.
“When you realize how deep the ice shelf is, considering its weight and all,” Henry told her,
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