bunking in the warmth of the base-various quarters on B Level for the grips, gaffers, publicists, and production assistants, and fancier officers’ compartments on C Level for the producer, director of photography, and channel rep-there were still plenty of outbuildings cluttering the grounds. He could make out a variety of prefab huts, storage shacks, and other temporary structures. At one side, a hulking Sno-Cat-an all-terrain vehicle with massive, tanklike treads-guarded a gasoline depot that would do an army division proud. And beyond everything else, standing alone just within the fence, was a metal-walled cube: a mysterious vault about which the scientists had been able to learn nothing.
With that morning’s arrival of Emilio Conti, the executive producer and creative force behind the project, the breakneck pace had accelerated still further. Conti had hit the ground running. At his order, large machines now effectively blocked the top of the glacial valley, complicating the scientists’ access to their work site. From what Marshall had heard, the producer spent his first hours on-site walking around the base and the surrounding permafrost with his photographic team; studying the way the light fell on the snow, the lava, the glacier; scrutinizing everything through a dozen different positions with a wide-angle lens that hung around his neck. Kari Ekberg had been with him the entire time, filling him in on what she’d accomplished, getting him up to speed, jotting down his work orders for the days to come.
Those days promised to be interesting, indeed.
Marshall picked up the cooler again, hefted it onto the other shoulder, and continued down the mountain. He felt bone-weary: as usual, he’d had trouble falling asleep the night before, and the noisy additions to Fear Base hadn’t helped in the least.
It was hard to believe that only a week had passed since the discovery. Privately, he almost wished the thing had never been found. He was unhappy with the frantic activity, so unlike the careful, cautious approach favored by scientists. He was unhappy with how the documentary team was being coy, almost secretive, about the specifics of their project. And he was especially unhappy with how distracting it all was, how his work was hampered by so many people underfoot. Their own window of opportunity here on the ice was closing fast. The only good thing about the rush, he reflected, was that the faster the film crew worked, the faster they’d clear the hell out.
He bypassed the Sno-Cat and walked into camp. A member of the film crew went by, carrying a long metal boom, and Marshall had to duck out of the way to avoid getting brained. The entrance to the base was obscured by a knot of Terra Prime employees, their backs to him, and as he placed the cooler on the ground and opened the lid to check the samples, he could hear querulous voices raised in complaint.
“This is the worst set I’ve ever had to work, bar none,” said a voice. “And I’ve worked on some shit.”
“I’m freezing my ass off,” said a second. “Literally. I think it’s frostbitten.”
“What’s Conti thinking? Coming up here to the middle of nowhere, just because of some dead pelt.”
“And all these dweebs wandering around, messing with our site and getting in the way.”
Our
site, Marshall thought with a mirthless smile.
“Speaking of wandering around, have you heard the talk of polar bears? If we don’t freeze to death we’re likely to get eaten.”
“We should be getting hazard pay.”
“The place stinks. The water pressure is terrible. And the craft service sucks. I’m used to fresh stuff-pineapple slices, canapés, finger sandwiches, sushi. Here we get prison rations: beans, hot dogs, frozen spinach.”
A sudden cheer erupted on the far side of the outbuildings. A moment later, there came another. Sealing the cooler again, Marshall trotted over to investigate.
About a dozen people had just gathered outside the
With that morning’s arrival of Emilio Conti, the executive producer and creative force behind the project, the breakneck pace had accelerated still further. Conti had hit the ground running. At his order, large machines now effectively blocked the top of the glacial valley, complicating the scientists’ access to their work site. From what Marshall had heard, the producer spent his first hours on-site walking around the base and the surrounding permafrost with his photographic team; studying the way the light fell on the snow, the lava, the glacier; scrutinizing everything through a dozen different positions with a wide-angle lens that hung around his neck. Kari Ekberg had been with him the entire time, filling him in on what she’d accomplished, getting him up to speed, jotting down his work orders for the days to come.
Those days promised to be interesting, indeed.
Marshall picked up the cooler again, hefted it onto the other shoulder, and continued down the mountain. He felt bone-weary: as usual, he’d had trouble falling asleep the night before, and the noisy additions to Fear Base hadn’t helped in the least.
It was hard to believe that only a week had passed since the discovery. Privately, he almost wished the thing had never been found. He was unhappy with the frantic activity, so unlike the careful, cautious approach favored by scientists. He was unhappy with how the documentary team was being coy, almost secretive, about the specifics of their project. And he was especially unhappy with how distracting it all was, how his work was hampered by so many people underfoot. Their own window of opportunity here on the ice was closing fast. The only good thing about the rush, he reflected, was that the faster the film crew worked, the faster they’d clear the hell out.
He bypassed the Sno-Cat and walked into camp. A member of the film crew went by, carrying a long metal boom, and Marshall had to duck out of the way to avoid getting brained. The entrance to the base was obscured by a knot of Terra Prime employees, their backs to him, and as he placed the cooler on the ground and opened the lid to check the samples, he could hear querulous voices raised in complaint.
“This is the worst set I’ve ever had to work, bar none,” said a voice. “And I’ve worked on some shit.”
“I’m freezing my ass off,” said a second. “Literally. I think it’s frostbitten.”
“What’s Conti thinking? Coming up here to the middle of nowhere, just because of some dead pelt.”
“And all these dweebs wandering around, messing with our site and getting in the way.”
Our
site, Marshall thought with a mirthless smile.
“Speaking of wandering around, have you heard the talk of polar bears? If we don’t freeze to death we’re likely to get eaten.”
“We should be getting hazard pay.”
“The place stinks. The water pressure is terrible. And the craft service sucks. I’m used to fresh stuff-pineapple slices, canapés, finger sandwiches, sushi. Here we get prison rations: beans, hot dogs, frozen spinach.”
A sudden cheer erupted on the far side of the outbuildings. A moment later, there came another. Sealing the cooler again, Marshall trotted over to investigate.
About a dozen people had just gathered outside the
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