Nina glared at him and the pope scowled back the same way, then his mouth widened to a smile. The girl would have seen herself but didn’t have the lightness to admit it. She grudgingly took the wire and secured it. The pope tied off the other end, then handed her clothes to drape over the wire. He knew his way around the teenage mind. Next, he showed her how to check the spot detector for the CO level and how to monitor the inadequate vents. The girl remained sullen, but the priest’s powerful atmosphere had to be affecting her as a magnet might rearrange iron filings.
The pope napped when he could. The shortest sleep refreshed him. His breathing, though laboured, was not as bad as before. He also helped with the cooking. ‘Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.’
Cain knew the passage, Ecclesiastes, and completed it. ‘For there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest.’
Eve said, ‘You’re so damn depressing. I don’t know what I saw in you.’
‘One thing about the ice. It brings out the worst or best in everyone.’
‘Are you criticising me?’
‘Just a comment.’ He’d thought her sexy, talented, amusing. But trapped in this rancid space, stripped of comforts and facing death, her narrowness and bitterness had surfaced.
‘Just a comment?’ she persisted. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Cain said nothing and checked the Primus flame. A yellow tinge was dangerous, meant incomplete combustion. They’d soon need more ventilation and opening the door wasn’t fun.
Nina turned to the pope. ‘See? He’s starting to see her for what she is.’
The pope, stirring the pot, had a coughing fit and let the fork go. Nina took it and continued stirring. The pope recovered. ‘Thank you.’
She reached for the zipper tag of the priest’s padded waistcoat, jerked it higher. The roughness of the act was revealing.
Cain glanced at Eve.
She said, ‘Don’t look at me. If it takes a pope to get through to her, what hope have I got?’
After they’d eaten and the others had retreated to their bags, Cain asked John if he’d brought his manuscript.
‘Of course. Would you like to read some more?’
‘Very much.’
The old priest rummaged in his bag and produced it.
Cain started, this time, from the beginning. It was titled ‘The Resurrection of the Body’. He was surprised to encounter complex Catholic metaphysics. Being. Change. Act. Potency. Prime matter. Causality. The uncaused cause. Ipsum Esse Subsistens. God’s permission of moral evil as a good. The intrinsic analogy of being. From this traditional basis the insight was expanded, developed. After a time he asked, ‘So you’re an advocate of Aquinas?’
‘How could one not be? He’s neglected now, of course. It’s like ignoring the break of day. And there are many things he said that the Church never aired because it threatened its position — such as his view on individual conscience.’
Cain read more, trying to understand the precise meanings placed on the terms. ‘I’m getting the impression the guy knew more than he’s admitting. He seems to have adapted eastern insights to Catholic terminology.’
The pope’s delighted laughter. ‘Well done.’
During the second morning the wind died almost to a breeze. Through the upside windows they saw snow level with the sills. Cain heard voices outside, saw a flash of yellow parka. The front cab inhabitants were out. A scuffling at the side door — someone with a shovel, digging it clear. The door was opened by the masked Hunt who peered in like Batman, framed by pale sky. ‘We’ve got company.’
‘You’re putting me on.’
He got into his parka and overmitts and joined her on the snow. It seemed a little less cold. The Hagglunds looked bizarre — half-buried, its sloping roofs and upper sides two triangles in the drift, the snow mound of Zia, the smashed radar antenna…
Bell stood beside Raul, peering through binoculars while the snap-frozen Mullins staggered about swinging his arms.
Cain rubbed the towelling on the back of his mitt across his goggles, squinted at the horizon but saw nothing but vast blue-grey expanse.
Hunt’s eyes were younger. ‘Something’s definitely there.’ She pointed.
It was a long way off and seemed to float above the plateau like a mirage. Distance had robbed it of colour but not shape.
Cain said, ‘It could be a temperature inversion — a reflection of something yonks away.’
‘Looks like a lot of boxes.’ Bell handed the glasses to Raul. All their actions now were slow — sapped by the constant fatigue.
Raul looked and handed the glasses triumphantly to Cain. ‘Definitely a sign of human folly. So were we right to set out or not?’
Cain adjusted the right eyepiece. He could make out something orange but distortion obscured detail. ‘Too big for a dump or a field base. Could be a parked traverse. You might’ve got lucky.’
‘With Gustave it isn’t luck,’ Bell said, eyes shining. ‘You should be thankful he’s with us.’
‘Don’t make me puke.’
‘I have enormous luck,’ Raul proclaimed. ‘But is it luck? Or something one attracts?’
‘What you’ve got is delusions of adequacy. You’re a showman, Raul. Just remember, your nonsense doesn’t work here.’
Raul sneered. ‘Such a need to defend your point of view!’
Mullins was excited about being saved. ‘We got flares? Smoke bombs?’
‘Haven’t seen any.’ Bell adjusted his neck gaiter and pulled up the outsized toggle on his parka to the limit of the zip. His face was blistered with deep ultraviolet burns. He’d tried sun-block — not knowing it was useless. In Patagonia, Cain had been told, the ozone hole was sending sheep blind.
Raul’s face was angry-red as well. He asked Hunt, ‘Can we get them on the radio without alerting EXIT?’
‘With local-use low power. Could try raising them on 16 — the marine emergency channel.’
‘Do it.’
‘But if they see EXIT stripes, they won’t come near us.’
‘So we cover the thing with the tents as if we’re trying to attract attention.’
‘Exactly. Exactly.’ Bell looked at him with adoration.
‘Admit all possibilities.’ Raul would have beamed had his lips been less cracked. He ordered Mullins to break out the tents and cover the vehicle.
Hunt clumped back to the front cab. Raul motioned Bell to follow her.
Cain went after them, back aching with the cold.
He called to her, ‘What will you tell them?’
‘Lies.’
The Hagg was fitted with VHF. She switched on, fiddled with the squelch, selected the channel, INTL, selected one watt, held the mike close to her mouth and pressed the switch. ‘Calling trav. We’re in a Hagglunds south of you and slotted. Have you in sight. Need assistance. Over.’
Crackle.
She transmitted again, repeated.
Nothing.
‘Perhaps they’re switched off.’
She repeated it again. Raul’s frost-rimmed face now stared into the listing cabin from the roof hatch. ‘Calling Hagglunds. Message received. Where are you? And how did you get here? Numbers, condition? Over.’
‘We hear you, trav. Eight alive, fair condition. Over.’
‘Where are you from? Please confirm. Over?’ The voice sounded Irish.
She glanced at Cain, knowing anything she said would sound improbable. A lone Hagg 800 kilometres from anywhere. It made sense to play it straight. ‘We were in a Hercules that crashed on the plateau. This vehicle was cargo. We’re about eleven o’clock from you. Long way. You’re only just in sight. Over.’
‘Received. Please confirm your base, over.’