MARGARET HAFFNER

Snowblind

COPYRIGHT

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperFiction

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1993 by The Crime Club

Copyright © Margaret Haffner 1993

Margaret Haffner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780002324090

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252724

Version: 2017-03-28

DEDICATION

For Ted Wood,

with thanks for his encouragement

Snowblind

Simon Hollingford, an Ontario Provincial Police detective, has been suspended while a charge of police brutality against him is investigated. He jumps at the chance to get away from it all by volunteering to be the radio operator for a scientific expedition in Canada’s high arctic.

Once in the north, his enjoyment is marred by the information that the previous year’s radio man, the scientist Phillip Loew, had been lost in a storm and the body had never been found. Then a series of potentially fatal accidents sets everyone on edge.

While birdwatching one day, Simon stumbles on the body of the lost man—but he hasn’t died of exposure. Two bullets in the chest prove the theory that high-velocity lead poisoning can kill faster than sub-zero temperatures.

All the same people are back in the north this year, which means one of them is a murderer. Amid steadily deteriorating weather conditions, Simon searches for the answer and uncovers a web of lies and hatred. Everyone had a motive for wanting Phillip Loew dead, and someone is willing to kill again to keep their secret safe …

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Keep Reading

Other Books By

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

September, 1985

Phillip Loew staggered and fell again to the frozen ground. He fumbled at his shoulder and his hand came away wet with blood. His blood. As his vision blurred with pain he clenched his teeth against rising panic. Hard-driven snow blasted his face and the icy wind tore the breath from his lungs. He gasped for air.

Struggling to his feet, Phillip strained to see through the shifting veil of snow. Whichever way he turned, spicules of ice lashed at his face, and his eyes streamed. Was his assailant still out there somewhere? It didn’t matter; he had to get back to camp. He swung his head from side to side like a deer scenting the breeze. Which way? He couldn’t afford to guess wrong. ‘If the wind is coming from the west …’ He turned his left cheek to the strongest of the icy blasts and stumbled forward. Hand pressed to the bullet wound, blood still oozed between his fingers. He choked back a wild, hysterical laugh.

He’d been walking for what seemed like hours when he blundered against an arch of ice across a frozen stream bed. As his knees buckled, he slid down its smooth side to lie crumpled beneath it. He reached painfully for his backpack and the food it contained but the pack was gone. ‘Rest … just for a minute …’

Considering the severity of his wound and the abysmal weather conditions, Phillip Loew had done well, but then he was a strong, determined young man. In fact he had struggled far enough to get back to the camp. It was a shame he’d been going in circles.

CHAPTER 1

May, 1986

Simon Hollingford watched as the immense load of equipment disappeared into the belly of the Hercules transport plane. It was hard to believe a group of eight people could need this mountain of supplies. ‘What is all this stuff?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Scientific equipment, food, tents, arctic gear for starters,’ a voice answered from behind.

He turned to see a woman whose short-cropped hair and workmanlike attire did little to conceal a very feminine face and form. Unconsciously Simon straightened his six foot one inch body, pulled in his stomach muscles and brushed his unruly brown hair back over his small bald spot. It sprang back immediately.

‘We’ve cut back to the bare minimum,’ she was saying. ‘As it is, I’ve had to leave three absolutely irreplaceable plankton nets behind, not to mention my second litre of Lugol’s iodine. It’s scandalous that they expect us to do our work under these restrictions.’ Her tone was lighter than the words.

‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ Simon murmured.

Holding out a friendly hand, she identified herself. ‘I’m Anne Colautti. Plankton.’

‘Simon Hollingford. Brawn,’ Simon returned, giving the warm, tanned hand a hearty shake.

‘So I see.’ Anne nodded appreciatively, then turned back to watch the loading proceed.

Armed forces uniforms were everywhere at this military base just outside Winnipeg. It was a giant anthill of organized chaos but in among the khaki-clad workers he saw more brightly dressed individuals. The rest of his scientific party, Simon mused?

By the time the gear stacked on the tarmac was swallowed up, one of these civilians, a distinguished man of sixty-odd years, came up on Simon’s right. The young Warrant Officer, Jean Beaulieu, approached from the opposite side.

‘You folks might as well sit in the canteen and have a coffee, Dr Karnot,’ the officer said to the older man. ‘We’ve got to load our own gear now.’

‘How long will it take?’ the scientist asked.

‘Forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.’

‘How much more can you get on that plane?’ Simon couldn’t help asking.

The Warrant Officer pointed towards a tank and another mountain of crates being manœuvred towards the Hercules.

‘All that?’ Karnot sounded dismayed.

‘Plus a little more which isn’t up here yet,’ returned Beaulieu. ‘The canteen’s at the far end on the basement level.’ A hint of a grin crossed his youthful countenance. ‘Don’t forget the army motto: “Hurry up and wait!”’

Simon turned to Dr Karnot. ‘I’m Simon Hollingford, your radio operator and Man Friday.’ He held out his hand.

Karnot gripped it and nodded graciously. ‘Sylvester’s relative.’

‘Brother-in-law. He’s the one who talked me into coming along and now he’s backed out himself!’

‘Too bad, but you’ll be too busy for socializing, Mr Hollingford. This isn’t a holiday!’ Karnot nodded dismissively and headed for the canteen at a brisk pace. Simon followed behind less enthusiastically. It was his holiday even if it wasn’t Karnot’s. How had he let Sylvester talk him into this?

‘It’ll be great, Simon,’ his freckle-faced relative had assured him. ‘You maintain radio contact with Resolute, lug a few boxes, and the rest of the time’s your own … just what you need while the inquiry’s completed. Even the Commissioner can’t bug you way up on Bathurst Island. Essentially you’re getting a free vacation in the high arctic!’

‘I’ll get you for this, Syl,’ Simon promised under his breath as he sauntered towards the canteen.

Balancing a cup of what purported to be coffee, Simon eased his bulk into a tiny opening around the green formica table with the rest of his group. Speaking to the youngish man on his left, he held out his hand to introduce himself.

The stranger limply touched his hand. ‘Dr Colautti. Tony Colautti,’ he amended with a slight flush as if realizing the pretention of the title among a host of fellow Ph.Ds. ‘My wife, Anne,’ he added, gesturing towards the woman at his other side. It was the blonde from the landing field.

‘We’ve met.’ Simon smiled a greeting but Anne only nodded.

Simon’s expectations took another dive but just then a friendly voice accosted him.

‘Hi.’ A wiry, grey-haired woman with tanned, leathery skin, and penetrating grey eyes, grasped Simon’s hand with remarkable strength and pumped vigorously. ‘Viola Legget.’

‘Simon Hollingford.’

‘You must be our new colleague, the radio operator. Thank heavens you could make it!’

‘Thank heavens?’

‘Yeah. If you hadn’t come we would’ve been stuck with a soldier. The army won’t let us go off without a radio operator.’

‘Soldiers are bad?’

‘No, not bad,’ Viola laughed, ‘but all they do is make radio reports to Resolute twice a day. We’ll get more work out of a civilian with no superior officer to protect him.’

‘It sounds like I’m going to be slave labour,’ Simon protested, only half in jest.

‘Nonsense. Glad to have you along, Simon, you’ll love it. Just love it!’ Her words were more like a command than a statement, but her enthusiasm was encouraging.

‘I’m sure I will, ma’am,’ Simon replied politely.

‘Don’t “ma’am”, me, young man. I’m not your mother. It’s Viola to my friends. The Old Bag to my enemies. You’d best choose.’

‘Can I get you something to drink, Viola?’ he asked, noticing that the table was empty in front of her.

Viola barked with laughter. She jiggled Anne’s elbow and cackled into her ear. ‘Our new friend here wants to buy me a drink.’

Anne smiled, her reserve softening a little. ‘How’s he to know the brutal truth about flying on a Hercules? Give the poor man a break.’

Simon’s eyebrow shot up as he spread his arms wide. ‘What are you two talking about?’

‘Look around, young man. Use your eyes. What do you see?’ Viola demanded.

Obediently, Simon studied the table and its occupants. Including himself, there were five men, and two women, all, as far as he knew, part of this expedition. A low murmur of conversation rose from the group. Simon caught a few isolated words—tents, pH meters, experimental design—but he knew this wasn’t what Viola meant. Assorted doughnuts and sandwiches, in various states of demolition, sat on the table with the drinks. Five drinks. ‘Ah-ha!’ Simon declared with a flourish.

‘Well, Holmes?’ demanded Viola.

‘Only the men are drinking.’

‘Very good. Why?’

‘Alas, my dear Watson,’ said Simon, entering into the spirit, ‘it’s all too clear. From the few facts before me I can only deduce there are limited toilet facilities on the aircraft.’ Simon produced his conclusion with more confidence than he felt.

‘Well done,’ Viola congratulated. ‘I deduce you are someone who can use his eyes and his brains at the same time. We’ll make a scientist of you yet, young man.’

‘It’s Simon to my friends, Young Man only to Old Bags.’

‘Touché.’ Viola snatched up a tired-looking sandwich. After eyeing it doubtfully she shrugged and took a bite. She grimaced. ‘Very dry. I’ve never had a sawdust sandwich before. I don’t recommend it.’ She tossed the rest away. ‘Have you met everyone, Simon?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Come over by me and I’ll give you a run-down.’ Viola detached herself from the group clustered around the table and with a conspiratorial index finger motioned him to join her.

‘You’ve met Anne and Tony?’

‘Yes.’

Viola snorted. ‘I don’t know what’s come over Tony lately—he used to be a great guy even if he wasn’t much of a scientist. But Anne’s worth ten of him, scientifically and personally. She’s a darn good limnologist no matter what that dried-up Jeff Jost says. Jeff’s the shadow over there in the corner. He’s with the Geological Survey. His type gives civil servants a bad name.’

Simon appraised Jeff—a florid fifty-year-old with the figure of a pear and the expression of a prune. Another charming companion, he thought sourly. Damn Sylvester. Would he be any better off with this lot than he’d be at home?

Viola’s fingers bit into Simon’s arm as she hunched herself even closer, grey eyes flashing. ‘See that tall man beside Jeff? The one with his nose in the air?’

Simon nodded. This was the autocratic man who had questioned the Warrant Officer. In Simon’s opinion, the white goatee was a trifle overdone.

‘That’s Eric Karnot. Birds. He’s quite good, though I’d never tell him so. His opinion of himself is already overinflated. He’s followed his feathered flocks all over the globe, taking photos and writing monographs. I hear he’s even done one of those glossy coffee-table books about tropical birds. Very elegant, I understand. Eric’s the golden boy of Bellwood College.’ Viola paused to give Simon time to admire his classic profile.

‘What and where is Bellwood?’ Simon asked. ‘I’d never heard of it until my brother-in-law mentioned this expedition.’

‘Not surprised—we’re a small university. We have a reasonable reputation although Eric’s really the only “name” professor we’ve got. Bellwood owes its reputation to him. And Wally Gingras.’ Here Viola indicated the slovenly figure beside Eric Karnot. The contrast between the latter’s crisp, fashionable appearance and Wally Gingras’s unkempt person was startling. It was hard to believe they represented the same species.

In response to Hollingford’s raised eyebrow, Viola chuckled and continued in her penetrating whisper. ‘He isn’t your idea of a bright light? Dung’s his thing.’

‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Wally’s a world authority on microbial ecology or “dung decomposition” in arctic habitats. A very erudite field, I assure you.’

‘No kidding.’ Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Simon studied Wally again. He was a short man, with greasy, yellow-grey hair hanging in lifeless hanks over his threadbare shirt collar. Thick lenses made his pale blue eyes bulge forward, and across the bridge of his bulbous nose a wad of adhesive tape held his glasses together. Simon guessed Wally to be about fifty-five and imagined he could smell him from where he was standing, fifteen or twenty feet away. Hope I don’t have to share a tent with him, Simon worried.

‘Isn’t it strange how so many people’s personalities match their field of expertise?’ Viola nudged Simon to regain his attention.

‘After that comment, I’m forced to ask what you do,’ Simon remarked.

Giving a crack of laughter, Viola poked his chest with a bony finger. ‘Mammals in general, musk oxen in particular.’

‘And what should I infer from that?’

‘Whatever you like, Young Man!’

Three hours later, Simon felt on the point of physical disintegration. Ever since the engines of the Hercules transport plane revved up, his body had vibrated like jelly in an earthquake. His very molecules were resonating in unison, about to finally split apart. And it wasn’t just the vibration. The sound waves themselves took possession of his brain.

Simon forced himself to re-examine his surroundings. He and his fellow sufferers sat strapped in web ‘seats’ slung just inches off the dull green metal floor. The accommodations could have been designed by the Inquisition’s Torquemada during a particularly bad attack of indigestion. The looming bulk of the tank three feet in front of him effectively eliminated any leg room. Fortunately, numbness had finally set in and his legs no longer felt cramped, but whether he would ever walk again was debatable. When Viola gave him a cheery wave from her comfortable seat in the assistant navigator’s chair he forced a smile in response. So much for equality!

Only a lucky few had been issued earplugs and Simon wasn’t among them. His eardrums were on the point of implosion.

To distract himself, Simon studied the young woman, Joan Winik, seated beside Viola. She hadn’t been part of the group in the canteen. A pain in the ass—wasn’t that how Viola had described her? She appeared anorexic and somewhat grim. Her long dark hair hung in a loose pony tail and, on her, the escaping tendrils looked messy rather than sexy. Maybe it’s those straight black eyebrows which make her look so angry, Simon decided, and the rude message on her sweat shirt. She dozed in her comfortable seat.

Simon groaned and shifted position, but he didn’t dare get up again, not after the last fiasco. When his leg cramps were at their worst, he had joined Private Schmidt in a stroll between the women’s seats and the freight. Pacing the six steps permitted in each direction, he fiddled idly with a steel funnel hanging from a string.

The private tapped him on the shoulder and said something.

Simon shook his head. ‘I couldn’t hear you. Speak louder!’

‘Stop playing with the urinal!’ Schmidt yelled.

It took a second for the message to register. When it did, Simon hurled down the funnel. It swung back and forth on its string, mocking him. Simon glanced around. Thank God he couldn’t hear the snickers! He’d slunk back to his web seat, vowing never to move again. So much for his brilliant deductive powers. Par for the course, of late.

The Hercules plane put down at Resolute, a tiny outpost on Cornwallis Island. At 75° latitude, it was the farthest north Simon had even been. Even at ten p.m., when they arrived, the sun shone with a distant, feeble light. The expedition members bedded down in the temporary army camp.

In the army mess the next morning, Simon breezed through the food line. Most of the soldiers had finished breakfast long before and the tent was almost empty.

The Colonel in charge motioned him over to where he sat alone at a long table. ‘Mr Hollingford, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Colonel. Thanks for the hospitality.’

Colonel Fernald grunted. ‘Don’t thank me. Orders.’ However, after fortifying himself with another swig of the excellent coffee, Fernald relented. ‘Glad to have you all here, actually. It does my men good to see that some people actually want to come north.’

‘This isn’t a popular spot?’

‘No, but we’re only here for three months. We’re having exercises to test our men and equipment.’

‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to test in the winter?’ asked Simon.

‘We’re going to be doing that too,’ Fernald replied. ‘Another popular idea. But manœuvring in summer isn’t all that easy either—no roads, lots of fog, hills, cliffs, sand and gravel, deep coastal indentations to cross, not to mention polar bears, wolves, and musk oxen.’

‘It sounds challenging,’ Simon commented, through his mouthful of bacon.

‘Just getting all the stuff here was half the battle!’ Fernald declared with feeling. ‘Even now, weeks into the exercise, we’re still bringing up odds and ends.’

Simon’s thoughts went back to the tank which had added such discomfort to his flight the day before. Was it an odd or an end? ‘Logistical problems, eh?’ he remarked with sympathy.

Fernald snorted. ‘You know what our biggest problem is? The weather at this godforsaken airport! The place is fogged in like it was Newfoundland. Every flight has to be postponed three or four times.’ Colonel Fernald stared morosely at the series of wet rings his coffee mug had made on the white surface of the mess table.

‘We got in OK yesterday,’ Simon reminded him.

‘You were damn lucky. But I’ll bet we can’t get you to Polar Bear Pass today. Didn’t you notice the fog rolling in?’

‘Can’t say that I did,’ Simon replied. ‘The sun was shining when I came across.’

Colonel Fernald tapped the table with his coffee spoon and shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat. ‘Hollingford … I’ve heard you’ve had a little trouble recently.’

Simon sighed. He’d been foolish to think he could escape his problems by running away. ‘A drug-dealer claims I beat him up when I arrested him.’

Fernald stopped tapping the spoon and looked Simon straight in the eye. ‘Did you?’

Simon shrugged. ‘I hit him. He had a knife and was planning to use it.’

‘The charges against the man were dropped. And no knife was found.’

‘You’ve been well briefed.’ Simon felt a nerve jumping in his cheek and clenched his teeth.

‘I like to know the people I’m responsible for. And I don’t want any trouble.’ Colonel Fernald hadn’t raised his voice but a warning had been uttered nevertheless.

‘Neither do I.’

‘Good. We understand each other.’ Fernald pushed himself away from the table, shoved his tray of dirty dishes into the rack and headed for the door. Simon saw him nod briefly at Tony and Anne who were on their way in.

Anne got through the food line first and came to sit beside Simon. Tony frowned but followed her. His brooding presence limited the conversation to dull platitudes.

Simon wolfed down the rest of his breakfast. ‘Think I’ll go have a look around,’ he said, pushing back his chair.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Anne popped up too.

‘Not at all.’ Simon hid his surprise as he waited for her to collect her things. Tony, barely into his heaping plateful, frowned ominously, but Anne ignored him.

Once they left the mess tent, Anne took the lead, proceeding down the slight grade to the left. The sunlight, so bright when Simon got up, was watery now and an iridescent halo circled all the lights. They walked in silence until they cleared the huddle of khaki and grey tents and approached the edge of a long, narrow bay. Across a hundred metres of water, the opposite shore wavered indistinctly in the gathering mist. Like a watercolour in muted tones of blue and grey, its outlines blurred. The water itself, an incredible grey-blue, was dotted with crazily shaped splashes of white. Ice.

‘Look!’ Anne pointed to an ice sculpture to their left, close to shore. ‘A cowboy hat.’

‘And an eagle’s head.’ He indicated a much larger formation, farther out in the bay. ‘This is better than cloud-watching.’ Along the shore to his right another ice buttress intruded on to the shore. Its silhouette reminded him of an old, bad-tempered man. The smile faded from his face. How was Duncan managing their father? Simon hadn’t been away from home for more than three or four days in years. Dad had become so hard to handle …

The raucous cry of a gull brought Simon back to Cornwallis Island and Anne. Forget the old man, he told himself. Have fun for once. He directed his attention to the other shore. Hills, low and rolling, ranged at right-angles to the grey and barren coastline. Between the two largest peaks the valley was white with ice and unmelted snow—a mini glacier ending at the sea. With the hazy sky, the grey hills, the white ice and the grey-blue water, the effect was unreal and dreamlike.

The dream had a musical score, too, a wild, disembodied wail which gradually penetrated Simon’s consciousness.

‘Huskies. In the Inuit village around the headland,’ Anne explained.

Simon looked around. Although the army encampment was still enshrouded in mist, the higher land beyond was momentarily visible through a break in the fog. Endless hills of stones disappeared into the mist. Even the hardy arctic plants had given up on the place, leaving the field to the never-ending gravel. And the grey fog was the same depressing colour as the landscape. ‘Why would anyone live here?’ he wondered aloud.

‘The Inuit didn’t pick this spot themselves. They were relocated from northern Quebec to make way for the James Bay hydro project.’

‘It sounds like a government idea.’

Anne took his arm. ‘Don’t look so glum. Polar Bear Pass, where we’re going, is nothing like this. It’s paradise in comparison.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Simon replied as they started back. ‘Are you looking forward to this expedition?’

‘You bet! My specialty’s arctic plankton. It’s a little difficult to study that subject at good ol’ Bellwood U.’

‘Do you come north often?’

‘Every year, money permitting. We were at Polar Bear Pass on Bathurst Island last year too.’ Anne kicked a pile of gravel with her booted foot. ‘I go where others are going—to sponge transportation, food and lodging.’

‘Do you think we’ll get there today?’ Simon asked, remembering the Colonel’s gloomy forecast.

Anne studied the sky. ‘Maybe. Colonel Fernald told us to be packed and ready to go by ten-thirty this morning.’ She laughed. ‘I feel for the guy—he didn’t really want to see us again, you know. Not after last year.’

‘What happened?’

Anne looked at him, her head cocked to one side. ‘Your relative—the one who fixed you up for this gig—didn’t tell you?’

Simon shook his head. Another score to settle with Sylvester?

‘One of our group, Phillip Loew, got lost last time,’ Anne explained. ‘We never found him.’

Simon halted in his tracks. ‘You mean he just vanished?’

‘Not exactly.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and then shook it back into place. ‘It was late in the year … end of September … and we had a blizzard. Phillip never made it back to camp. The army, the RCMP, everybody looked for him but we never found him. Must’ve frozen to death.’

Simon gave a low whistle. ‘No wonder Sylvester forgot to mention it. He knows I’m allergic to dead bodies.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Thousands of square miles of nothing and I have to head for the place with the corpse.’ A busman’s holiday for sure.

They approached the camp where a bustle of activity surrounded two helicopters. Under the watchful eye of Warrant Officer Beaulieu, the other members of the expedition were cramming the mountains of gear into these machines. Tony glared at his wife, who stiffened momentarily but turned away without saying anything. She and Simon pitched in as they all scrambled to be ready for the first signs of the fog thinning.

CHAPTER 2

As Simon watched the two helicopters disappear into the cobalt blue sky, panic momentarily gripped his heart. There’s nothing to worry about, he admonished himself. You’ve left all your troubles fifteen hundred miles to the south … nothing but peace and tranquillity for four weeks.

Simon was standing a little apart from the others as the choppers took off but the huddled group was visible out of the corner of his eye. They too were watching their link with the familiar world vanish.

Eric was first to shake himself free of the spell. ‘Let’s get this camp organized!’ He pointed down the gentle slope. ‘Four sleeping tents in a circle with supply tents off to the side.’

Eric took command, barking orders with more force than Colonel Fernald had mustered. Simon joined his tent mate, the unprepossessing Wally Gingras, to put up their shelter.

The army had supplied large, circular tents of heavy green canvas. All the poles and pegs were neatly rolled in the cloth but Simon couldn’t find the instructions.

Wally hurled impatient directions at Simon. ‘Over there … no, there …’

Simon tried to steady the centre pole while Wally pounded pegs into the frozen earth with a small wooden mallet.

‘No, not like that! It’s not straight,’ Wally complained. Simon bit his tongue and swung the tip of the tent post a millimetre to the left.

‘Hold it now! There. That’s got it. No … not quite …’

Standing back for a better view, Simon thought it looked fine, but Wally still wasn’t satisfied.

‘It tilts to the left and we’ve put the doorway on the outside of the circle. We’ll have to fix it.’

‘No way,’ Simon protested. ‘It doesn’t lean and I want the door facing the scenery, not the neighbours.’

‘But it’s facing into the prevailing wind.’

‘Then we’ll keep the flap down.’ Simon stretched his cramped arms. ‘I’m going to unpack my equipment, Wally, so if you want to change the tent around, do it yourself.’ Simon made his way back to the mound of supplies.

‘Hey, you, Hollingford!’ Jeff, his disapproving scowl glued to his face, loomed up behind him. ‘How about helping with the supply tent?’

‘Sure thing.’

‘Put it here.’ Jeff let the tent bag fall at his feet and walked away.

‘You’re welcome,’ Simon said under his breath as he bent to unroll the kit. He struggled for some minutes to do the impossible before he heard a chuckle in his ear.

‘Need some assistance?’ Viola asked. ‘Joan and I finally got our tent up so I’ll help you while I’m still in practice. I forget from year to year how to erect these damn things …’ In minutes the tent stood taut and tall.

‘There.’ Viola smiled. ‘Teamwork. Now let’s move the food into the second supply tent.’

By eleven that evening some semblance of order had been established and Eric called a halt for the night. Although the sun still rested along the southern horizon they were tired and anxious for sleep.

‘Who’s for cocoa?’ Anne asked as the activity level died down.

‘Me,’ they chorused. Every sleeping tent had a single-burner Coleman stove and she and Jeff each brought one out into the circle and lit it with practised skill. As they waited for the water from the nearby stream to boil, everyone found something, a collecting pail or sample crate, to sit on. Simon felt the cold penetrating through his windbreaker now that he’d stopped moving about. He donned the government issue green parka and white mittens. Others did the same and they looked like a chorus of green frogs perched on their respective logs.

‘Just like last year,’ Viola commented with satisfaction.

‘Not quite,’ a nasal voice intoned. ‘Dear Phillip isn’t here to annoy us.’

‘Wally!’ Anne said, shocked.

‘Don’t give me any of that “don’t speak ill of the dead” crap, Anne. You can’t tell me you miss the bastard.’

‘That comment is in very poor taste, Wally.’ Eric spoke with authority. Wally spat between his boots, following the script of a ‘B’ movie.

‘Phillip himself was in poor taste,’ Joan declared with characteristic vitriol. ‘Thanks to his stupidity, I lost three weeks of field time.’

‘You can’t accuse him of stupidity,’ Viola put in quietly. ‘No one knew that storm was coming up. It could just as easily have been you lost out there in the blizzard.’

Joan tossed her head. ‘Not me.’

Anne shivered. ‘Poor Phillip. Do you suppose we’ll find his body?’

Her husband snorted. ‘The RCMP spent three weeks last year looking. If they couldn’t find him then, we’re sure not going to find him now!’ He shifted around so that his back was towards her.

‘They didn’t even find his pack …’ Anne murmured, red-faced.

Joan sprang up from her crate and planted herself in front of Eric. ‘I think Phillip came to a fitting end. It’s appropriate a man willing to sell out this land to an oil company should end up having his body here. Maybe in a few million years he’ll be oil!’ She stirred her hot chocolate so savagely that it slopped out on to her parka. ‘Shit.’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ Eric protested. ‘Besides, he was my son. Have a little consideration for my feelings.’

‘Your stepson, Eric, there’s a difference,’ Wally said in a voice hollow with pain.

‘A technicality.’

Joan put her hand on her hip and pointed her finger at Eric. ‘Don’t try to con us. We all know you couldn’t stand each other!’ Eric shifted his feet, ready to spring up but Anne leaped into the breach. ‘Have some more cocoa, Eric,’ she urged, waving the pot of water and a drink packet between the potential combatants. Eric hesitated momentarily, but relaxed again. Joan laughed harshly and headed for her tent. Simon felt a twinge of disappointment—the conversation was just getting interesting.

Before turning in, Simon decided to uncrate the radio—his major charge. The tent farthest from the circle contained the scientific stores and doubled as the communications centre, a grandiose name for one short-wave radio. The instrument was well wrapped in bubble pack inside a heavy crate. Colonel Fernald’s radio operator had provided instructions but basically the radio was idiot proof. Twice daily Simon was to check in with the army camp, once at 0800 and once at 2000 hours, starting the next morning. He’d have to be up early to erect the aerial in time for his first report.

Carefully he set the radio on a sturdy crate which had contained the emergency medical supplies. Joan, as the senior Red Cross graduate present, had taken these to her tent. As well as the usual disinfectants, splints, antibiotics and painkillers, there were several ice-packed vials of blood for emergency use. Duplicate medical histories of everyone had been provided—one copy Joan kept next to the medical supplies and the other Simon now hung on the side of the radio. He skimmed the medical histories—nothing interesting—and they showed an average cross section of North Americans with respect to blood type—three A’s, four O’s and a B.

Easing herself silently into her sleeping-bag, Anne tried not to disturb her husband who lay, similarly shrouded, on the far side of their tent.

‘So you finally decided to join me.’

Sighing, she answered. ‘Viola and I were completing the sanitation facilities.’ Why am I explaining, she asked herself? It’s my right to go to the toilet! But anything for peace.

‘I heard you. So did everyone in camp, I expect. Do you have to keep the rest of us up half the night with your stupid chatter?’

‘Good night.’ Anne wiggled farther into the down bag as if hoping it would shield her from her husband’s inexplicable anger and her own silent misery. Sleep was long in coming to both sides of the battleground.

Simon finished rigging the aerial before anyone got up. The wires drooped like a clothes line between the supports. Functional, if not artistic, he decided. When Anne appeared, Simon had just completed tying a series of makeshift red bows on to the thin wire.

‘What do you think?’ Simon asked, indicating his contraption.

‘Colonel Fernald would have you peeling potatoes for a year! Good thing you’re not in his outfit!’ Anne giggled.

Simon enjoyed the friendly banter they exchanged when Tony wasn’t around. ‘I’m anxious to see if it works. I wish Eric had let me set up last night.’

Yawning, Anne headed for the sixth tent where they’d stored the food boxes. ‘I hate the way the sun shines in the middle of the night. I have trouble sleeping when it feels like high noon, don’t you?’ she asked, stooping to enter the tent.

‘I can sleep anytime, anywhere I get the chance.’

‘Let’s see …’ Anne pried the lid off one of the crates marked BREAKFAST. It contained thirty-six white cardboard boxes, each labelled in bold red letters. The first layer read ‘mushroom omelette’, the second, ‘bacon and eggs’, and the last, ‘sausages’. ‘What takes your fancy, Simon?’

‘I’ll try the bacon and eggs.’

‘I’ll have sausages,’ Anne decided, removing two boxes. ‘I’ll boil some water.’

Simon bumped into Joan as he headed back to his tent.

‘What’s this rat’s nest?’ she jeered, pointing at the sagging aerial.

‘My “rats’ nest” is your only link with civilization,’ he retorted. ‘Be careful how you insult it!’

By the time the water was boiling, everyone was up. They all hovered around the two stoves set up in the middle of the circle.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ Viola ripped open her meal box and tipped out the contents. ‘One chocolate bar. One packet of instant coffee. One packet of orange crystals. Crackers—I’ll keep those for later. Plastic cutlery, napkin, cream and sugar packets. And this.’ She held up a slim foil package about eight inches by five. ‘This is bacon and eggs?’ She eyed it doubtfully but dropped it into the pot of water to heat.

While the eight foil pouches simmered in the water, the others sipped coffee or hot chocolate.

Jeff turned to Simon. ‘What’s your job in real life? Obviously you’re no scientist.’

‘I’m a policeman.’

Several heads jerked up.

‘Sylvester didn’t tell me that,’ Eric accused.

‘That’s where I learned how to operate a radio.’

‘Hell! Here I am, trying to get away from the Establishment, and who comes along but a damned cop!’ Joan shook her head in disgust.

‘I’m on holiday,’ Simon protested.

‘Once a cop, always a cop.’

‘Policemen aren’t needed up here,’ Wally mumbled. ‘Should stay where you belong.’

‘Breakfast must be ready by now,’ Viola interrupted, shooting Simon a pleading glance.

Simon’s lips thinned but instead of retorting he gingerly gripped the corner of his package and lifted it out of the hot water. He slit the top of the envelope and squeezed up the contents. His bacon and eggs emerged as a rectangular pressed grey mass with unidentifiable bits of brown embedded in it. He sniffed cautiously and nibbled a corner. He wrinkled his nose.

‘Well?’ Eric demanded.

‘Tastes like cardboard with a chemical aftershock.’

‘It can’t be that bad.’

They all reached for their pouches. Anne’s sausages were a suspicious reddish grey and laden with nitrates. Viola’s mushroom omelette resembled the bacon and eggs but had grey bits instead of brown.

‘We can’t live on this!’ Eric exploded. ‘No wonder the army used us as guinea pigs—there’d be a mutiny if they gave this stuff to their own men!’

‘They’re poisoning us with chemicals.’ Joan spat her mouthful back into the pouch.

‘Maybe the other meals are better …’ Anne ventured. Tony glared at her and her voice trailed off.

In the end, they ate chocolate bars and instant beverages for breakfast and didn’t linger over the meal.

They shoved all the combustible garbage, the boxes, paper packets, and napkins into one carton, and the foil and plastic into another. What they couldn’t burn, they’d take with them when they left.

As the others bustled in and out of the storage tent in search of stray equipment, Simon tried to raise the Cornwallis Island army camp on the radio.

‘This is Victor Echo 8735. Come in, Viking,’ Simon intoned.

‘Thinks he’s Lorne Greene,’ Jeff commented under his breath as he squeezed by the communications centre.

Loud static crackled in Simon’s earphones. ‘This is Victor Echo 8735,’ he repeated again and again, fine-tuning the frequency knob and fiddling with the other controls.

At last he removed the earphones and turned off the set. While he re-examined his antenna, Jeff stood to one side, pointedly examining his watch.

Simon went over to him. ‘Go on ahead, Jeff. I won’t be long once I’ve got the radio tent to myself. I’ll catch up.’

‘I doubt it. I travel fast.’

‘I won’t be long behind you,’ Simon said. ‘Surely you can start your sampling series without me.’

‘Certainly I can. You’re not conducting the survey, you’re carrying the specimens.’

‘I promise I’ll be there to lug your stuff around, Dr Jost,’ Simon responded through gritted teeth.

‘Do you know where the cliffs are, Hollingford?’

‘I have a topographical map. If you mark the spot, I’ll find it.’

‘OK, but I can’t say you’re off to a good start,’ Jeff commented, turning on his heel.

‘Don’t take any notice of the old fraud, Simon,’ Viola advised him with a friendly slap on the shoulder. ‘He talks that way to God. I’m heading north as well, though not with Mister Personality. Don’t scare my musk oxen!’

‘It’s more likely to be the other way round,’ Simon laughed.

An hour later Simon sat back on his heels, mission accomplished. He was free to haul rocks for the next twelve hours if he hurried after Jeff. But instead, he drew a small sketchbook from his pack and began a line drawing of a burst of fragile yellow flowers pushing up from a tuft of leaves in the gravelly terrain. The Almighty Jeff could wait.

A half-mile upstream, Anne Colautti marked off a tiny pond for the installation of a conductivity meter and a temperature probe. But her mind wasn’t really on the job at hand and this distressed her. Until recently her work could always take her out of herself, erasing any non-scientific problems from her mind, but not any more. Instead of taking careful notes describing why she’d chosen this site as representative of an ice-wedge polygon locale, she was sitting on the cold earth, hands tucked into her parka sleeves, on the verge of tears. At least she was alone.

Pull yourself together, woman. Anne hauled her hip waders out of her bulging pack and struggled into them. As usual, she hadn’t been able to find a pair small enough to fit and, even with layers of socks, her feet were lost in the boots. She hitched the straps over her shoulders, knotted them a few times to take up the slack, and then fastened them in front.

Now encased in unyielding rubber, she moved awkwardly and almost fell as she slid into the pool. ‘Damn.’ A gurgle and a slurp were followed by a rush of bubbles breaking the surface as her boots sank to the ankles in the ooze at the bottom. She leaned over to get her probes from the bank and then started forward. But the suction of the bottom marl held tightly and, when she lifted her foot, the boot stayed behind. Its rubber leg tripped her up and, fighting for balance all the way, she fell with a splash.

‘Damn! DAMN! DAMN!’ Her voice shrilled with an edge of hysteria, and as it echoed she caught the note. ‘Dear God. I’m losing control!’ Anne bit her lip hard. ‘Relax. Breathe. Be calm.’

She was sitting neck deep in frigid water. Her full boots weighed her down and her jacket floated up around her ears. But the shock of cold helped her focus and she soon wiggled out of the boots and stood up. She stripped off her sodden jacket, hurling it to the bank in a dripping arc. The probes followed. She felt around in the now murky water for the boots until her hand closed on the knotted straps. But the pond bottom didn’t release the boots without a struggle and her feet were again ankle deep before the boots pulled free with a rude burp. She swam the three strokes to shore, hauling the offending footwear behind and clambered up exhausted and shivering on to the bank.

‘Where are you, Tony?’ she sniffed. Other years he’d been there laughing at her awkwardness but ready to rub her dry and kiss her warm. Now, dripping water on to everything, she rummaged in her pack looking for the skimpy towel she’d brought. Her teeth chattered like a machine-gun as she stripped off her clothes. She had to get back to camp, but the urgency of the situation didn’t galvanize her as it should have.

‘So I freeze to death. So what?’ she muttered, pulling on the thin jumpsuit she’d packed as a precaution. Who’d care? Who? Not Tony. Not the university. Not anybody.

Hot tears coursed down Anne’s cheeks. But with a determined fist, she ground the salty pools from her eyes and hauled her mind back to the present. Only her hiking boots were still dry. She managed to pull them on but her fingers were too stiff to do up the laces. She’d just emptied her pack to use as a jacket when a voice hailed her.

‘Problems?’ Joan jogged up. ‘Fell in, did you?’

Anne nodded jerkily.

‘Here. Put this on.’ Joan unzipped her coat and handed it to the freezing woman.

Anne huddled into it. ‘Thanks.’

‘Been crying, have you?’

‘No. No, it’s just water.’

Joan shrugged. ‘I heard you swearing. You sounded pretty upset to me.’

‘Wouldn’t you be upset if your boots were too big and they got stuck and you fell in?’

‘You should be better prepared. Unless, of course, you want to do a Phillip Loew impersonation.’

‘Are you going to help me or not?’ Anne sputtered through her blue lips.

Joan shrugged again. ‘OK. OK. What do you want me to carry?’

‘My clothes, my meter and those damn boots.’ Anne kicked at the offenders.

‘Get going,’ Joan ordered. ‘I’ll bring them along.’

Anne, resolutely keeping her mind on her destination, headed for camp as fast as her frozen joints would allow.

Eric had come to Polar Bear Pass to study shore birds, but on this first day he headed inland. His binoculars and cameras swung from his neck in true birder fashion but Eric didn’t pay any attention to the scenery.

‘Damn Wally …’ he muttered, kicking a stone into a shallow pond. ‘Why can’t he let Phillip rest in peace?’ A worry line creased his patrician brow. ‘And Joan’s no better,’ he announced to a nesting plover who fluttered with agitation as he passed. ‘Always stirring the pot …’

Eventually he worked off his spleen. He slowed to a more leisurely pace and began scanning his surroundings, peering left and right with more intensity than the scenery merited.

Equilibrium restored by his art, Simon set off to join Jeff. Before leaving camp he’d studied the map. Half an hour, he decided. Forty minutes tops. But as he walked he discovered the deceptive nature of the terrain. The tops of the rolling hills were covered with gravel and lichen and were easy to walk on, but as he descended each slope the ground changed. In places it seemed to be cut into foot-wide polygons, separated from each other by grooves about two inches wide and four to six inches deep—a pattern well suited to twisted or broken ankles. Farther down, near the bottom of the valleys, he encountered a spongy, sedge-covered surface, succeeded by shallow ponds or creeks. His hiking boots, suitable for the high ground, were useless for forging the water barriers and within a few hundred yards Simon’s feet were drenched. For each slope he descended, there was another to climb. After a half-hour of hard slogging the six tents still looked close.

Another hour and a half of strenuous hiking brought the unimpressive cliffs into reach. But between them and Simon a small blue lake nestled in a fold of hills, cutting off direct access. The shorter way around was to the west, but a herd of musk oxen grazed there. Viola’s herd? Simon halted in indecision, watching these prehistoric-looking animals as they browsed in the reeds.

Beside the lake Simon caught sight of a bulky pack, Viola’s by the colour, but he couldn’t see her. When he noticed a flash of light off to the left he searched for the source and saw Viola lift her binoculars to watch the herd. As she did, the sun glinted off the lens. For a while, he watched the watcher as she nimbly followed the musk oxen, making skilful use of the sparse cover and staying strategically downwind.

Viola was carrying one of the .22 calibre rifles, but a quick look at the animals told him they wouldn’t be stopped by such a light gun. Putting his hand into the pocket of his parka, Simon fondled his artillery simulator or ‘arti-sim’. It was a large firecracker which made the sound and light of an artillery attack but didn’t actually fire anything. The idea was to scare off attacking animals instead of killing them. He also carried a .303 rifle which was much more effective on large game, but a lot heavier and more awkward to carry than he’d anticipated. Simon sighed and headed the long way around the lake.

It was mid-afternoon before Simon caught up with Jeff. The scientist ignored his presence for several minutes before acknowledging him with a rude grunt. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’

‘I had to detour around Viola’s animals,’ Simon explained. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Help me get the dimensions of this rock face.’

Jeff pulled a cloth measuring tape from his sack and passed the end to Simon. ‘Hold this right here.’

It took twenty minutes to make the measurements the geologist wanted. Jeff made careful notations in his field book. ‘See that outcrop over there?’

Simon nodded.

‘Make the same set of measurements on it.’ Jeff threw the tape and the notebook at Simon.

With no one to hold the other end of the measuring tape, Simon was forced to go to elaborate lengths to fix it in position. It took twice as long to complete the second series of data. From time to time Simon paused to admire the spectacular scenery and watch Jeff, who seemed to be drawing portions of the rock face. When Simon finished his task, he peered over Jeff’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you just take a photograph?’

‘Differences between the layers are so slight the salient characteristics are lost in a photo.’ Jeff traced his stubby finger over the rock face as he spoke. Simon made out the indicated features with difficulty. ‘See the marginally larger grain in this horizon, and the softer texture indicated by the more extensive weathering?’ Jeff asked.

‘You could bring out the texture in your drawing better by shading,’ Simon suggested.

Jeff slammed his book shut on the drawing and whirled to face him. ‘When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. I’m the geologist; you’re the hired help.’

‘Just because I’m not a godalmighty scientist doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot!’ Simon snapped.

Jeff stared at his antagonist for long seconds with icy contempt, but then, like wax softening, his expression changed. ‘Can you draw?’

‘Yes.’

Wordlessly Jeff handed over his book, and pointed at the rock face.

Simon outlined the features Jeff had indicated along with a couple of other subtle differences. In a matter of five minutes the job was done. Still without a word being spoken, Simon returned the sketchbook.

The geologist studied the drawing, then, looking Simon straight in the eye for the first time, he said, ‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’

Motioning Simon to follow, he clambered a few feet higher to a wide ledge and then turned to offer a hand to his companion. Simon didn’t need the help but took it as a gesture of peace.

‘Can you do the same for this section of the rock?’ Jeff asked, indicating a roughly square area about a yard wide.

‘No problem.’

‘Would you label the sketch F-133?’

Simon nodded. He accepted the book but declined the pencil. ‘I carry my own,’ he said, pulling a stub from his pocket.

Gradually their tension eased, and by the time Simon had made six sketches conversation came easily. Jeff gave Simon an elementary geology lesson of the area. ‘The rocks talk, Simon, if you’re only able to hear them. I can look around and know how this land has changed over the millennia. I can tell this part of the world was once a tropical sea, once a beach. For a long time it lay crushed under millions of tons of ice, and when the ice melted it took tens of thousands of years for it to bounce back. In fact the land here’s still rebounding.’

It was late in the day when they gathered up the equipment and split the thirty pounds of rock samples between them. By the time they reached the lake, Viola and her musk oxen were specks in the distance so they were able to take the short way around.

‘You were here last year?’ Simon asked as they climbed yet another hill on their route back to camp.

‘We all were, except you, of course.’

‘Who was radio operator?’

‘Phillip Loew. We’ve all returned except him, though I guess he’s still here somehow.’ Jeff smiled a tight smile.

‘What exactly happened to him?’

Jeff shrugged—no mean feat with the heavy pack. ‘No one’s really sure. It was last September … We were all going about our business as usual when an unexpected storm hit. Wally and I holed up at the IBP station—those two quonset huts on the horizon. The others were close enough to camp to get back. All except Phillip. We never saw him again.’

‘I assume you searched …’

‘Naturally. But the winter had come to stay and conditions were difficult. The RCMP searched too, and when they couldn’t find him they insisted we leave immediately.’

Conversation ceased while they forded an icy stream. Jeff wore waterproof, insulated boots, ideal for the terrain. Simon looked at them enviously. The squelching sound he made as he walked attracted Jeff’s attention. Clucking his tongue, he scolded, ‘That’s no way to operate here. You’ll end up with frostbite at the very least. Tell you what: I’ve a spare pair of boots exactly like these. If they’ll fit you can have them.’

‘If necessary, I’ll amputate my toes to make them fit. Thanks.’

Trying to ignore the pain of his blistered feet, Simon again turned his mind to Phillip’s disappearance. ‘Wally and Joan didn’t like him … ? Phillip, I mean,’ he asked.

‘No one did,’ Jeff replied with a short laugh. ‘He was a pain in the ass. A real know-it-all.’

They laboured up the endless succession of low hills and forded the icy streams between. From one rise he spotted Anne in the distance, leaning on a pole. Her drooping posture suggested she was as tired as he was.

‘I’m surprised you came back to the same spot after such a tragedy.’ Simon returned yet again to the missing man.

‘I didn’t want to, but not because of squeamishness. I’d rather expand my studies to another site. However, I was overruled.’

‘You’re a civil servant, aren’t you? What are you doing in this university crowd?’

‘Habit, I guess,’ Jeff replied. ‘I hooked up with the bunch from Bellwood College years ago when I couldn’t get travel money from the Geological Survey of Canada. It’s much cheaper to piggy-back on an existing expedition than to mount your own.’

Simon manœuvred his rifle from one hand to the other. He was certain it was gaining weight. ‘You don’t have a gun with you. Didn’t Colonel Fernald say we were to carry one at all times?’

‘It gets in the way. I have an arti-sim in my pocket. I’ll put my faith in that.’

‘Viola has hers,’ Simon commented.

‘Sure, but she’s following those damn musk oxen all the time. I avoid anything on four legs.’

Dressed again in warm, dry clothes, Anne crouched at the side of the pond and packed up the wet things Joan hadn’t been able to carry. A whole day wasted! Only two sites chosen in twelve hours and her meters weren’t installed yet. In earlier years she and Tony worked eagerly together, choosing sites they used jointly. It had been one of their dreams to work together. But even last year, the collaboration was half-hearted on Tony’s part. The decay in their relationship began before that. But exactly when, and why?

Sniffing dolefully, Anne began the trek back to base camp, her mind two years into the past. How happy she and Tony’d been up until then! She conducted her research in an annexe attached to Tony’s lab and spilled over into his territory, but he didn’t care. In fact he joked to the other faculty members that his wife was better known than he was and the wrong one was getting paid. Somewhere in that year something went wrong. Tony changed.

After his radio check that evening, Simon emerged from the tent to find Joan in a foul mood and cursing Wally Gingras with every breath. The man wasn’t there to defend himself.

‘That prick!’ Joan steamed.

‘What did he do?’ Viola asked.

‘He won’t collaborate with me, that’s what! Here I am, studying bacteria on this godforsaken island and he won’t even let me sample one of his dung heaps!’

‘There’s no shortage. Use another pile,’ Simon said flippantly.

‘It’s not the same. He’s going to have all kinds of data I need … breakdown rates, compositional profile, and so on. But will he share his data? Oh no. I told him I’d be happy to put his name on any papers I wrote but he still said no.’

‘You know he never co-authors papers,’ Viola pointed out reasonably. ‘He’s a loner.’

‘Well, it’s a pretty silly attitude if you ask me.’

‘I don’t know. He’s famous in his field so he must be doing something right,’ Jeff threw in as he joined the group.

Joan grunted ‘Of course you’d defend him instead of me …’ She stomped off in a huff.

Eric and Wally didn’t appear for the evening meal. Viola and Simon tried to keep a conversation going but finally subsided in defeat. Joan and Jeff spent their time glaring at each other while Anne and Tony sat apart from the rest, speaking to no one, not even each other. Compared with what was to come, it was a convivial evening.

CHAPTER 3

Polar Bear Pass was experiencing unseasonably warm weather, the temperature frequently reaching two or three degrees Celsius. It was a comfortable working temperature for most purposes and Simon was anxious to put the mild spell to good use.

‘The coast is only about six miles from here, isn’t it?’ Simon asked one night at supper.

‘About that,’ Viola agreed.

‘Think I’ll go have a look tomorrow.’

‘You only have twelve hours between radio checks and it’ll take you three or four hours to get there and the same to get back,’ Eric warned. ‘Hardly seems worth it.’

‘That still gives me a few hours to spend there. I want to see some belugas or seals or something like that.’

‘You won’t see much from shore except birds and you can see them here,’ Tony chimed in. ‘You should stay near camp in case one of us needs you.’

‘But, Tony, you’re always telling me how unimportant I am. Now you think I’m indispensable?’

‘Hardly!’

‘Then I’ll go. You’ll have to struggle on without me.’

‘Why don’t you take one of the rubber rafts?’ Anne suggested. ‘The blue one folds up small for carrying and then you could go for a paddle when you reach the ocean.’

‘That’s a great idea. I’ll do that.’ Simon rubbed his hands together.

‘I might need it tomorrow,’ Joan objected.

‘Then you can use mine,’ Anne replied calmly. ‘I’m going to be doing microscope work.’

Joan glared at Anne and Simon in turn but said no more.

After two hours of strenuous walking, Simon could see the coastline. Three or four hours—Eric must be a slow walker! Simon smiled and picked up his pace even more but the shore didn’t seem to get any closer.

‘What is this? A time warp?’ he grumbled as he checked his watch. Over three hours and still the ocean hovered on the horizon. Simon’s buoyant mood dissipated as he slogged on, determined not to give up.

His mind turned southward. He’d made arrangements to speak to his sergeant by radio while he was on holiday and all of a sudden he wanted to hear Bill’s gravelly voice. He wanted to know what was happening. Although one of the reasons for coming to Polar Bear Pass was to get away from the cloud of uncertainty hanging over him, now he felt too isolated. Had the board come to a decision? Did they believe Delio’s story? Would he be suspended … even charged with assault? Simon felt his fists clenching. Delio’s type didn’t deserve to live.

And his father … how was he? Simon knew the old man hated unfamiliar surroundings. Duncan and Pam would take good care of him, but still … Simon rubbed his chin. He realized he’d soon have to put his dad in a nursing home but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Even with his memory all but gone, his father instinctively fought the idea. Simon smiled ruefully. He was damned either way. Overwork or guilt would get him, but guilt was beginning to look easier to take. He couldn’t cope much longer and the expense of home nursing help was prohibitive. Simon trudged along on autopilot, his mind hundreds of miles away.

He was sweating when he finally arrived at the coast, but it was well worth the effort and his spirits rose. The sky was bluer than he would ever have believed possible and the ice was either clear like crystal or blindingly white. The emerald waves, crested with froth, were transparent as well and at times he could see the sunlight through them, giving him a glimpse into an alien world.

Simon took his time inflating the rubber raft, working the foot pedal rhythmically as he absorbed his surroundings. When that small task was accomplished he perched comfortably on a sun-warmed rock and munched a granola bar. This was more like it.

He marvelled that he could smell the utter cleanliness of the air. Granted there were flowers, tiny clumps of seaweed, and salt spume, but it was none of these which he smelled, at least not individually. It was better than any of those. Simon breathed in great lungfuls, feeling the tingle right down to his toes.

His pencil flew over the pages, capturing the mystique of the landscape with a minimum of strokes as he frantically tried to gather everything into his sketchbook. Rocks and waves, lichen and gulls, ice and whales, delicate flowers and overwhelming vistas were pulled from his surroundings and restrained in two dimensions of black and white and yet they lived. To Simon these two hours were worth two years of rock-carrying, post-pounding or dung-sifting.

When he had satisfied his need to draw, Simon turned again to the raft and manhandled it over the slippery rocks to the water which seethed and raced between the black boulders. The light craft bounced on the waves and Simon almost did the splits when the raft leapt seaward while he still had one foot on shore. But at last he was safely launched and he paddled three hundred yards from shore before relaxing to survey the scene.

Almost immediately he spotted a pod of narwhal swimming towards him. Through binoculars he watched them twist and turn fluidly in their element, staying just below the surface except when they came up to blow. Simon could feel the mist of their breath on his face. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their hoarse cries carried on the wind.

Gradually Simon realized the seat of his jeans was wet. He glanced down to see his raft riding low in the water and waves washing over the side. Hell, he was sinking! Frantically he searched for the leak. Not the valve. Not under him. Not on the gunwales. His probing fingers searched over the side and down under the water line but within seconds they were numb from cold. He felt what he thought was the hole but he couldn’t be sure.

He watched the dancing bubbles in horror. Were they getting more numerous? Was the hole getting bigger? He shifted, trying to see the gash but with every move the waves washed inside faster and the raft settled deeper into the water. It no longer danced on the waves but rode sluggishly, reluctantly, up and down on the swell. The shore looked a long way off.

The repair kit! With a rush of relief Simon remembered the repair kit kept in the pouch of each raft. The patches were supposed to stick even to wet rubber. Keeping his body as still as possible, he stretched to retrieve the kit from its storage place. Nothing. Simon leaned forward, recklessly causing a flood of water to wash in board. His fingers scrabbled in the corners of the pouch but it was no use. The repair kit was gone. He was in real trouble.

Tentatively he began paddling, altering his stroke in an attempt to minimize the water he was taking aboard while maximizing his speed towards shore. With narrowed eyes he tried to gauge his progress. It would be close. Should he swim for it? Simon tried to recall the statistics he’d read about survival times in arctic waters. Why hadn’t he paid more attention? Was it thirty seconds or thirty minutes?

‘Not thirty minutes,’ he decided aloud. ‘Five minutes, maybe?’

He tried to judge the distance to shore—two hundred yards at least. But he’d been terribly mistaken in his estimate while walking to the coast—maybe he was wrong again. And he wasn’t a strong swimmer.

‘You’re a fool to be out here alone,’ he cursed himself as he fought panic. ‘Paddle, idiot.’ He paddled desperately, awkwardly, trying to ignore the slopping of the water as it gurgled around his numb legs. The bottom edge of his jacket was submerged now and it acted like a wick, pulling the water upward, soaking his vest and shirt. Only his fear was keeping him warm.

The rubber boat was slowly folding up around him, trapping him in a rubber strait-jacket. He had to stretch to reach up and over the edge of the boat to keep the paddle in the water. The pressure of the collapsing boat was squeezing his legs painfully. When shore was still thirty yards away Simon knew he would soon be unable to kick free of the boat’s ever tighter embrace. He gritted his teeth and used every ounce of his strength on the puny paddle. Simon’s muscles were screaming in protest and the water was up to his chin when the bottom of the raft dragged on the stones. For a moment he was too dazed to realize he’d made it to shore but at last he staggered to his feet, fought off the raft, and struggled for the rocks. He collapsed in a wet heap, shivering with cold and exhaustion.

Ten minutes later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, Simon knew he would have to move. If he stayed still he would die of hypothermia. With numb fingers he fumbled at his zipper, then let the jacket plop to the hard stone where it lay weeping on to the gravel. He pulled on the dry toque he’d left on shore and each hair on his head was grateful for the warmth. He jumped up and down flapping his arms like an arthritic penguin.

‘I’ve got to get dry,’ he whispered hoarsely. He looked around. There was nothing to burn and besides, his matches were useless now. Why had he spurned the waterproof kind?

He stripped off his soaking clothes and wrung them out as much as his numb fingers could manage. Then with a shudder he wriggled back into the damp garments. Not much of an improvement, but it was the best he could do.

‘Camp,’ he mumbled. ‘Camp,’ he repeated clearly, forcing himself to action.

It was a nightmare journey. Time after time he stumbled and fell because his feet were too numb to feel the uneven surface. He was getting colder, not warmer, and a rime of ice formed on the seams of his clothing. The sun had disappeared behind an ominous cloud bank. ‘You don’t want to join Phillip Loew as a permanent resident,’ he told himself as he scrambled up yet another hill. ‘One more hour. Walk just one more hour and you’ll be home.’ He descended the next slope and splashed through the inevitable stream at the bottom. A thin film of ice tinkled into a thousand crystals.

‘Simon? Simon?’

The voice penetrated Simon’s daze at last and he peered around for the source.

‘Simon!’ Anne hurried up to him. He faltered to a halt. ‘Oh my God,’ she cried. ‘You’re frozen!’ She briskly rubbed his arms and back, stretching her slender arms around his shivering body. ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured.

Gradually his shivering diminished to the point where he could talk. ‘Thanks.’

‘Can you walk now? We must get you back to camp.’

Simon nodded wearily. ‘I know. How much farther?’

‘Not far. Come on.’

‘Had a good close look at the water, did you?’ Eric asked when Simon appeared at supper that night.

‘Too close.’

‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ Eric’s goatee bristled righteously. ‘We don’t need any accidents this year.’

‘Serves him right,’ Joan remarked. ‘He’s supposed to be working.’

‘You should be thanking me, not criticizing,’ Simon retorted. ‘If I hadn’t taken that raft you might’ve been the one to sink.’

‘I only go out on ponds and most of those aren’t more than waist deep. And I wouldn’t have lost the raft.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone out alone,’ Jeff chided. ‘One of us should’ve gone with you. We know the dangers.’

‘The rest of us have work to do. I know I have no time to spare for sight-seeing.’ Tony sneered at Simon.

‘Let’s just be grateful he’s still alive,’ Viola exclaimed as she executed a final flourish to the vigorous back rub she was giving the victim. Simon drew his blankets tighter and cradled his hot chocolate. Would he ever get warm?

‘It was thoughtful of Anne to go looking for you.’ Eric directed his words at Simon but it was Tony he watched.

‘Especially since Simon wasn’t even missing,’ Tony hissed, glaring at his wife.

‘I wasn’t looking for him,’ Anne retorted, ‘but it was lucky I was out that way.’ She stood up, her hands on her hips. ‘What’s wrong with you people anyway? You’re acting like you wanted Simon to have an accident …’

Tony had the grace to blush but neither Joan nor Eric turned a hair. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, my dear,’ Eric said in his most irritating manner. ‘Sit down and finish your dinner like a good girl.’

Anne gritted her teeth and stomped off.

Viola clucked her tongue. ‘Don’t bait her, Eric.’ She turned to Simon. ‘I’ve made you some more hot chocolate.’ Viola thrust yet another scalding mug into Simon’s hands. ‘We’ll get you warm, don’t worry.’

As Simon drank his chocolate he glanced again at Wally. Wally hadn’t contributed to the conversation but his yellowed eyes darted among his companions as if seeking hidden meanings in their words.

When Simon woke the next morning, even his feet were warm. For a few minutes he lay in his bag, savouring the comfortable glow in his fingers and toes. He squinted at his watch and groaned. Seven-thirty. He heard muffled clatter. The others were already up.

After a static-filled radio check, Simon grabbed a couple of chocolate bars and headed out in the direction of the IBP station where Wally and Jeff had waited out the storm which killed Phillip. This station lay in a north-easterly direction from their base camp, and its two small quonset huts huddled in the middle distance. Like all things on Bathurst Island, however, it was farther away than it looked and it took Simon an hour and a half of brisk hiking up and down the long low hills to get there.

Until now he had avoided visiting this vestige of the International Biological Program because he instinctively resented its human blight on an otherwise barren and wild landscape. It comforted Simon to know that when his expedition departed they’d leave no sign of their intrusion; no building, no hearth, no garbage. It would be as if they’d never come, except for a few less insects, bacteria and plankton, and a few minor scars on the unyielding rocks. They were even careful not to thaw the permafrost under their tents, keeping the atmosphere indoors only marginally warmer than outside. He smiled as he remembered Viola telling him about the radio operator on a previous expedition.

‘That private was so lazy,’ she railed, ‘he just stayed in his tent all day. Stove going full blast. Can you believe it? All the way up here at government expense and all he does is sit in his goddamn tent? Two radio contacts a day—that’s all he did. Wouldn’t even help carry gear.’ She brushed a hand through her grey hair. ‘Anyway, he got his comeuppance. His stove melted the permafrost under his tent and he woke up one morning in a swamp. I laughed so hard … Problem was, the darn swamp kept spreading like mould on bread till we all had to move our tents.’

By the time Simon jogged up to the IBP site, he’d unzipped his parka and shed his heavy mitts, retaining only the thin gloves he usually wore inside them. His scarlet toque was riding high over his ears like a rooster’s comb, so he swept it off and crammed it into his pocket.

According to Jeff, Polar Bear Pass had been intensively studied during the United Nations organized year of exploration and research. Scientists posted on Bathurst Island had semi-permanent quarters and a rough runway had been scraped into the terrain. A squat, ladder-like aerial, minus its windsock, was all that remained of the airstrip and the two low grey huts were the remnants of the camp itself.

These huts, side by side, were each about five metres long and two high at the vault of their curved roofs. The door on one gaped open on a lone hinge and Simon peered into the gloomy, empty interior. There were no windows, and the dark, cold tunnel enveloped him in its sense of desolation. Simon slammed the door shut but as soon as he let go it clanged open again, echoing hollowly across the barrens. He approached the second hut almost reluctantly and gave its door a tentative shove. Nothing. He fumbled at the frozen latch and with difficulty swung the hasp free. A good shove from his shoulder made the stiff hinges screech in protest but the door opened. He stooped and entered.

Boxes, maybe thirty or forty, were piled along the walls and the majority were still sealed. They’d been there twelve years, left as emergency rations for anyone marooned in this wasteland. Staying low to avoid banging his head, Simon hauled one crate to the shaft of light coming from the doorway. The rest of the interior remained in deep shadow and even the air had the closed, lifeless feel common to all long-deserted buildings. Breathing it, Simon’s lungs still hungered for more oxygen, as if this dead air could no longer support life.

He tried to shake off his gloom by opening the carton. Sixteen large jars of instant coffee confronted him. One was only half full. Wally and Jeff? Or the IBP scientists? He kicked the box back to its former position and, with his eyes now adjusting to the gloom, read the labels on the others. Beside the coffee was a case of instant hot chocolate and under that a box labelled potatoes. Jeff and Wally could have managed for quite a while provided they could keep themselves warm. The next rifled crate Simon examined contained fuel canisters and a tiny stove. Not the Hilton, Simon decided, but the hut would have seemed very welcoming indeed to men trapped in a blizzard.

Curious to see how twelve-year-old potatoes looked, he bent over their box and ran his finger under the flap. The top of the carton gave way easily. Glue must be rotten, Simon thought … potatoes likely are too. But inside, instead of vegetables, he found a lump of dirty green canvas. He began to re-close the carton but curiosity stopped him. He grabbed an edge of the cloth and pulled, but it was jammed in tightly and wouldn’t yield. Simon wedged the carton between his feet and yanked, almost toppling backward as the canvas came free. He turned the bundle over in his hands and saw the pockets and leather straps of a backpack—a well-used one from the look of it. It felt heavy. He untangled the straps and set the pack upright on top of the coffee carton. When he smoothed out the creases Simon noticed the initials P.L. written in faded magic marker on the flap.

‘P.L.,’ Simon murmured. ‘Phillip Loew?’ He worked open the cord knotted around the mouth of the bag and peered in. He recognized the outline of a small soil corer and a rock chisel. He lifted the tools out and dug deeper to find a field notebook, plastic sample bags, blank tags and a crushed chocolate bar. Even before he found Phillip’s name scribbled on the flyleaf of the notebook he felt sure he’d found the pack of the missing man.

Simon sat back on his heels, a frown corrugating his forehead. What was Phillip’s pack doing crammed inside a potato carton at the IBP station? No wonder the RCMP hadn’t found it—or Phillip either for that matter. According to Jeff, they’d concentrated their search in the Pass itself.

Simon twisted around, peering deeper into the gloom. Was Phillip’s body here too? He sprang up and walked towards the rear of the quonset hut, every nerve at attention. He methodically searched the few areas hidden by the boxes. Nothing. He headed for the rectangle of light framed by the doorway, then crossed the few yards of open ground to the other building and stepped inside. The hut was as empty as he’d thought.

Chewing his lip, Simon returned to where he’d left Phillip’s pack. He repacked the bag, knotted it shut and slung it over his shoulder. As he surveyed the hut one last time he saw the notebook lying on the ground. He scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket. From the doorway he looked back. How much longer would the food stored here stay edible? When would the next traveller take shelter in this bleak sanctuary? How much longer would the quonset hut itself stand? Everything was completely still, totally quiet, and Simon felt as if he were the only living thing left on the earth. He stepped from the gloom back into the world of sunlight, birdsongs, and life. As he pulled the door shut the dissonant protest of the hinges signalled his return from an alien landscape.

As he crested a hill Simon spotted Eric and Viola not far away. Eric was gripping her arm and she seemed to be protesting. ‘Hello! Eric!’ Simon shouted.

They turned and stared at him. Viola waved weakly. By the time Simon reached them she’d pulled away from Eric.

‘Something wrong, Vi?’ Simon asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘You look excited, though. What’s up?’

Simon held out the backpack he’d discovered. ‘Recognize this?’ He looked from one stunned expression to the other.

‘It’s Phillip’s,’ Viola whispered. ‘Isn’t it, Eric?’

Eric cleared his throat as Simon silently pointed out the initials. ‘Yes, it’s Phillip’s.’ He reached out to take it from Simon. ‘Where’d you find it?’

‘At the IBP station.’

‘The IBP station?’ Viola’s voice rose in disbelief as she shook her head. ‘Impossible.’

‘That’s where I found it,’ Simon assured her. ‘In a carton marked potatoes.’

‘In a carton? What on earth would it be doing in a carton?’

‘Good question, Eric. I didn’t see any sign of Phillip himself.’

‘Of course not,’ Viola said. ‘Jeff and Wally would’ve found him if he’d been there. They spent two days at the station during the storm, remember.’

‘And they would’ve mentioned the pack if they’d seen it,’ Simon murmured. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Meanwhile, Simon, I’d like to keep Phillip’s pack,’ Eric said. ‘His mother may want to see it … a last reminder …’

‘Sure,’ Simon agreed. ‘It belongs to you more than anyone else.’

As the group sat around that evening, waiting for their foil pouches to heat, Jeff groaned and stretched out his legs. ‘God, I’m tired! This terrain really takes it out of you. And then lugging rocks too … Think I’ll spend tomorrow cataloguing my samples.’

Joan smirked. ‘Can’t stay the pace, Jeff? Getting a little soft? Too old for field work?’ She rose and moved lithely around behind him. ‘Shall I get you a hot-water bottle?’ She bent to put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Your knitting?’

‘Put a sock in it, Joan. I’m in better shape than you are.’ He brushed her away and turned to Simon. ‘Did I hear you found Phillip’s pack at the IBP station?’

‘Yeah. Packed in a cardboard box.’

Joan, half way back to her seat, stopped and stared. ‘How’d it get there?’

Simon scanned the circle of faces. ‘You tell me. I understood he had it with him when he disappeared.’

Anne winced. ‘You don’t suppose Phillip himself’s there too …’

‘I looked. No Phillip.’ Simon stirred the simmering water with a stick. The silver packages bobbed around, a skin of bubbles clinging to their sides like tiny jewels. ‘The funny thing is,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘the pack was stuffed into the carton … squashed down so the top flaps could be closed. And the top was re-glued.’ Simon tried lifting a packet, balanced on his makeshift spatula, out of the water but it fell back in with a plop. ‘It looked to me like it had been hidden.’

Eric’s goatee vibrated as he frowned. Simon could hear the words before Eric spoke them. ‘Nonsense. You must be mistaken.’

‘You explain it, then,’ Simon invited.

‘I can’t form an hypothesis without all the facts. It’s unscientific.’

‘I can,’ Joan interrupted. ‘I bet Phillip put it there himself.’

‘Why?’ Jeff and Viola chorused.

‘Remember Phillip complaining his tent had been searched? And his stuff rifled?’

Viola and Jeff nodded. Tony and Anne glanced at each other.

‘Well, maybe Phillip hid it to keep it safe,’ Joan proposed.

‘But there wasn’t anything interesting in it,’ Simon objected. ‘Just field notes and tools.’ He turned to Eric. ‘You have the bag now. Did I miss something?’

‘No. It held just ordinary field supplies. Phillip wouldn’t need to hide it.’ Eric glared at Joan, who shrugged and locked her fingers behind her head.

‘Just an idea, Eric. Don’t lose your cool.’ She looked around. ‘Anyone got a better explanation?’

Simon’s eyes widened when Wally spoke up. ‘Phillip hid it so he could accuse one of us of stealing it.’ He wiped his thin mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s something he’d do … Phillip liked to make trouble.’

‘I refuse to sit here and listen to this!’ Eric stood up and stalked to the stove. ‘Give me my dinner. I’ll eat in my tent where the company’s better.’

The members of the research team settled into a routine. They rose early and had breakfast, making no attempt to socialize. Instead, each scientist was intent on getting started as quickly as possible on the day’s tasks. The crate of inedible breakfasts had remained untouched since the first morning. Now everyone ate lunches in the morning since these were more appetizing, and most of the cookies and chocolate bars were secreted in parka pockets for snacks during the long day away from camp.

On this particular morning Simon had agreed to help Anne. As he lifted the huge pack to his back he recalled the snatch of conversation he’d heard the night before.

‘… So if you could help, Tony, just for the morning …’

‘I’m too busy. Everyone else manages alone, Anne. Don’t be a baby.’

‘You know it’s heavy work to put in the barriers. I’m not strong enough.’

‘Get your loverboy, Simon, to help. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you cosying up to him. It’s sickening.’

‘That’s not true, Tony, and you know it!’ Anne had replied hotly. ‘But if you won’t help I bet he will!’

Yes, Simon thought decisively, count on it.

‘How far away are these ponds, anyway, Anne?’ Simon panted under his load.

‘Not that far. They’re the closest suitable ones I could find.’

‘And just how picky are you?’

‘All I want is small size, constant depth and symmetrical shape.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ Simon returned sarcastically as he splashed through a pond which, although it had been rejected for the study, seemed to fit the bill as far as he could see.

‘I need a rest,’ he announced a little later, dropping his armload of poles to the frozen ground with a clang. A knapsack full of clamps and nets clattered after it. ‘This better be worth it,’ Simon gasped as he stretched out, unzipping his parka as he did so.

‘It will be. I’ll give you an acknowledgement in my paper.’

‘That’ll look good on my résumé, I’m sure … really help me in my career.’

Anne smiled. ‘Except for the fact you’re a policeman, I don’t know anything about you.’ She eased out of her pack and sat down crosslegged. She tilted her head to one side and stared at him. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘Not much to tell … I’m just a boring, middle-aged, slightly overweight male.’

‘Come on—not one of those things is true.’ She wiggled around, searching for a smooth spot on the rough ground. ‘Are you married?’

‘Nope.’

Anne noticed the slight hesitation in his voice. ‘You don’t sound very sure. Are you divorced?’

Simon shook his head. ‘Never married. I almost was, though.’ He saw the question in Anne’s eyes. ‘Two years ago I was engaged … my fiancée broke it off three weeks before the wedding.’

‘Oh …’

Simon smiled, his eyes crinkling in amusement. ‘Don’t look so worried—she did the right thing. Smart girl, Annette.’

‘I bet it hurt,’ Anne said softly, touching his arm.

‘Yeah, mostly my pride, though. I had my doubts about the whole thing but I didn’t have the guts to tell her.’

Anne propped her pack up behind her, leaned back and stretched out her legs. ‘Why did you get engaged?’

Simon shrugged. ‘We’d been dating a long time … seemed like the thing to do.’

Anne reflected on her own engagement. It had been such a glorious time. She’d had no doubts and neither had Tony. Or had he?

‘Why did your fiancée change her mind?’

‘The old story. A cop’s life is too hectic, too unpredictable. I don’t know how many dates I broke with her because of my job … I guess she decided she wasn’t cut out to be a policeman’s wife.’ Simon could remember Annette’s exact words when she told him her decision. ‘I need order, Simon, and dependability. Every time we make plans I end up having to change them. Our friends can’t count on us … I’m running out of excuses. I’m tired of going alone to parties where everyone else is in couples.’ She’d pushed her long auburn hair out of her eyes in her characteristic gesture. ‘And your father—if you’re serious about having him live with us …’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. It just won’t work. I’m sorry.’

Simon returned to the present. Anne was speaking to him. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘I just wondered if you have another girlfriend now.’

‘No one special,’ he replied. No one period, he added to himself, and unless his life made a dramatic turn for the better, there never would be. He jumped to his feet and struggled into his pack. ‘I’m getting cold sitting here. Come on—let’s get this over with.’ He jogged off at a terrific pace and Anne had to run to keep up.

When he had finally worked off his frustration he was sweating. ‘Guess I got carried away,’ he apologized. Then he laughed. ‘Here I am, leading the way, and I don’t even know where I’m going!’

‘You haven’t done badly,’ Anne reassured him. ‘See that pond over to the right?’ She pointed. ‘That’s it. Let’s have a drink and a snack and then we’ll get started.’

They sat in silence for several minutes while they recuperated. As he lay, taking in great gulps of the cleanest air he had ever enjoyed, Simon put his personal problems behind him. His thoughts turned once again to the missing man of Polar Bear Pass. He was fighting the urge to treat this tragedy like a murder investigation, but his sixth sense told him something was not quite right. And both he and his partner, Bill Harkness, had a healthy respect for his hunches. ‘Out here in the wilds with all these men,’ Simon stammered, ‘do you have trouble fending any of them off?’

Anne chuckled and turned an amused gaze on him. ‘Getting the lie of the land, Simon? I’m a married woman.’ A shadow crossed her face.

He laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant. I was thinking about Phillip, actually. Even you don’t seem to have liked him much … I wondered if perhaps he’d been bothering you.’

‘Hardly. If he’d been “bothering” anyone, as you put it, it was likely Jeff or Tony.’

‘Oh.’ Simon rubbed his chin. ‘Then what did you have against him?’

Anne shifted around trying to get comfortable on the unyielding earth, a frown creasing her brow. ‘That’s hard to say. I can’t think of one particular reason.’ She took off her toque and ran her fingers through her short curls as she tried to crystallize the reasons for her dislike. ‘He had many of Eric’s characteristics but few of his redeeming features. Phillip was—how can I put it?—autocratic, opinionated. But most scientists can forgive those failings. Those adjectives describe us all to some extent!’ She laughed self-consciously.

‘Not all of you,’ Simon protested gallantly. Anne blushed.

‘Probably what bugged us the most was his pursuit of money above science. Even if some of the rest of us are after the almighty dollar instead of “knowledge”, the illusive Holy Grail of science, we keep it to ourselves. Phillip was always after money from contracts, industry, foundations, the government …’

‘I thought all scientists were looking for research money.’

‘That’s true, but Phillip wanted money for himself as well. Oh, he collected it under the guise of research, usually from oil and other resource-based companies, but he always factored in a hefty salary for himself. That is not common.’

‘And everyone knew this?’

‘Of course. He boasted about how he inflated his costs to cover it. Besides, if he was willing to give the answers the companies wanted, particularly about things like environmental impact, they were happy to pay him.’

‘That would make him really popular with Joan,’ Simon commented.

‘You’re not kidding. Joan is a rabid environmentalist, very unrealistic at times, and a pain in the neck, but I prefer her extreme stand to Phillip’s mercenary soul.’ She gasped guiltily. ‘Why am I saying these things? The man is dead.’

‘Probably,’ Simon agreed calmly, ‘but that doesn’t change what he was in life.’

But Anne, upset with herself, scrambled to her feet. ‘Let’s get to work.’

Joan was not easily defeated, but she had met her match in Wally Gingras. No amount of coaxing, reasoning or threatening would get him to help her. ‘Wally, why? I won’t hurt anything. I could get my samples after all your measurements have been taken. All you’d need to do is give me a photocopy of your rough notes for that particular patch of shit.’

‘I work alone. I do not collaborate, I already told you that yesterday.’

‘Wally …’

‘No! That’s final. Go away.’ Wally turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Joan to fume helplessly.

She kicked at a clump of reindeer moss. Bastard. How the hell was she to get her research finished this year if Wally wouldn’t cooperate? If she’d just stuck to the narrow academic road she would’ve been finished long ago. But with most of her time spent working for Greenpeace and Environment Now her doctorate was taking longer than the usual four or five years. And all she got for thanks was a police record for a failed attempt to set fire to a fur warehouse.

Joan held a pointed finger in the air towards Wally’s disappearing back. ‘You won’t stop me, you old fart,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘That’s not very nice.’

Joan started in surprise and then twisted to face Viola.

‘So? Neither is he,’ Joan sneered.

‘He has his reasons,’ Viola replied.

‘He’s not the only one who’s had a bad break in life … The rest of us manage to remain civilized.’ Joan stalked away.

‘Not so as you’d notice,’ Viola murmured as she headed out of camp.

Using a heavy mallet, Simon attempted to drive a metal pole into the ground at the edge of a small pond. Sweat flowed freely even in the chill air and progress was slow as he fought his way inch by inch through the permafrost. Gingerly he tested the pole. A gentle shove failed to dislodge it but Simon had no doubt an energetic lemming could tip the post with moderate effort. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he cast around for some rocks to anchor the pole. This was only their second pond and already it was four in the afternoon.

Anne was busy stringing a fine mesh between the other pair of poles but, judging by the exclamations erupting from her vicinity, her task wasn’t much easier.

‘Are you sure all this is required?’ Simon asked with a grunt as he heaved a large rock out of the water.

Anne rushed over to peer into the water with a worried frown. ‘Don’t do that. You mustn’t disturb the pond any more than is absolutely necessary.’

‘All I did was remove a rock! You’ve been walking through it!’ Simon protested indignantly.

‘Yes, you’re right, but I had to. Aren’t there any rocks on shore?’

‘They’re not very handy,’ Simon replied shortly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anne cried, immediately contrite. ‘I don’t mean to criticize, I really appreciate your help. Let me find you some rocks.’

‘It’s OK, I’ll do this. You just finish with that net so we can get out of here.’

‘Thanks.’ Anne smiled her breathtaking smile. It almost made the labour worth while, Simon decided.

They finished their tasks and then stood back to admire their handiwork.

‘Now what happens?’ Simon asked.

‘Well, for this particular pond I’m going to remove all the zooplankton from one side and see if the population of phytoplankton increases when the grazing pressure is diminished.’

‘In English?’

Anne laughed. ‘Too technical? OK. Let’s see … With a sampling net I’m going to remove as many of the microscopic animals as possible from one side of the pond. The mesh we’ve just installed will keep the animals from the other side from moving in. Then in six weeks I’ll sample both sides of the pond to see how many microscopic plants are present. The theory is that the side with no plant-eaters will have a higher population of plants. Clear?’

‘Yes, except we’ve sectioned this pond into three areas, not two.’

‘Good point. Into the third area I’m going to add the animals I’ve removed from the first section. This should lower the plant population below that in the control area.’

‘Let me know how it turns out,’ Simon commented.

‘You won’t be here then, will you?’

‘No. I’m leaving after just four weeks in this vacationer’s paradise. Some other poor sucker is taking my place.’

Anne came over to stand by Simon and they both stared at the scene in front of them: the grey-purple tundra, the endless blue of the sky and the utter transparency of the pond in which the entire world was repeated, upside down, in perfect detail.

‘You don’t like it here?’ Anne laid a small hand tentatively on his forearm. Simon imagined he could feel the tingle of each fingertip even through his down jacket.

‘Of course I like it. I love it, if you must know,’ Simon said. ‘In just a few days Polar Bear Pass has got into my blood. It’s beautiful … awesome … quiet, pure.’ The last words hung in the crystal air. Again Simon’s thoughts were pulled inexorably towards the missing man. If you had to die, it was a wonderful place to spend eternity.

‘Yes, it’s all of that,’ Anne breathed, sharing his emotion. ‘I’ve come to the arctic every year since I started my master’s degree and I’m still awestruck each time. My only regret is that I have to travel with such a motley assortment of people—they intrude on this perfection.’

‘Well, excuse me!’ Simon exclaimed in mock indignation.

‘You know I don’t mean you. I’m talking about Joan, or Wally, or even Eric.’

‘I can understand your objections to the first two, but Eric Karnot? I thought he was the quintessential scientist and nature-lover.’

‘In more ways than you might expect,’ Anne retorted with feeling. ‘Remember the behaviour you were suspecting Phillip of? His stepfather was the problem, still is the problem, as far as I’m concerned. Around the university he has a reputation as a real lecher. He can’t keep his hands off women.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Lynda—the wife is always the last to know.’

Simon gave a low whistle. ‘Well, well. So the noble-looking Eric isn’t quite so noble as he appears.’

‘No way, and he’s very persistent—almost a pain.’

‘And a married man, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘You’re not mistaken. Three years ago when I first came up north with Eric and the crew from Bellwood College, he was recently divorced, without a good word to say for his ex-wife, and hot on my trail. The next summer he came, a newly-wed, but still on my case. Guess who he’d just married?’

‘Phillip Loew’s mother, I gather.’

‘Yes, but whom do you suppose he had divorced just the year before?’

Simon shook his head.

‘Phillip’s mother.’

‘Are you saying he remarried the same woman?’

‘Precisely. And Phillip was furious, especially when he caught Eric prowling around me.’

‘I’m not surprised. You’d think with the son right at his elbow, Eric could’ve controlled himself.’

‘Well, he didn’t, and his wife never heard anything about it since Phillip didn’t live to tell the tale.’

‘It’s sad the baggage of civilization has to come up here with us,’ Simon mused.

As she picked up the gear to move on to the next pond, Anne agreed wholeheartedly.

Wearily Tony plunked his corer down on the frozen terrain. These northern trips used to be the highlight of his year but this time it was torture. But then life itself was torture of late. He groaned aloud, longing for what he considered the innocence of his post-doctoral days.

His mind’s eye saw Anne as he had first seen her, one brilliant autumn day at Hemlow College. A colleague had pointed her out where she sat, eating her lunch under a golden beech in the arboretum. Her simple white dress had been spread out around her, making a base for her graceful upper body and accentuating her pale skin and gleaming blonde hair. It had taken him a year’s allotment of nerve to go up and introduce himself, but he needn’t have worried; she was the friendliest, least critical person he’d ever met. He thought she was beautiful.

Very easily they had become a ‘couple’, informally at first, just frequenting the same functions and monopolizing each other’s time. But Tony remembered the first event they’d attended as a unit—a summer tea hosted by the women’s alumni, and presented in Edwardian splendour on the shady lawn of the college. Anne was seductive in a simple cotton dress and he felt awkward and inelegant, like a lump of earth on a china plate. With wonder, he realized she actually meant it when she told him she was enjoying herself and his company.

From there, it seemed a natural progression to marriage, and he had assumed, in the patriarchal manner of his family, that Anne would sublimate her career to his own. She had, and without protest. But time and experience educated Tony in ways formal schooling could not, and now he couldn’t contemplate Anne’s salary-less, adjunct status without guilt overcoming him. As if he didn’t have enough of that to carry already.

Removing a fur-lined glove, Tony rubbed his eyes with a heavy hand. Where the hell was he? Why? The corer, as familiar as an old friend, felt strange in his hand when he bent to retrieve it. No site in the majestic terrain seemed worth sampling and no knowledge was worth wringing from the harsh landscape. He wasn’t the first to decide solitude was not good medicine for someone at war with himself.

With a supreme mental effort Tony hauled his thoughts from the abyss of despair and surveyed the vista before him. He needed a location with deep soil so he could obtain pollen buried in the peat as long as possible. Then he could accurately re-create the changes in the vegetation of the island over time. Last year’s data indicated that about seven thousand years into the past was as far as the pollen record went. It hinted that for the last one thousand years the climate had been colder and drier than it had been for the two thousand years previous to that. Tony realized his findings agreed with studies done on Axel Heiberg Island and Devon Island, but that didn’t really raise his self-esteem. Validating someone else’s data wasn’t the activity of an innovative scientist.

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