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
