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  “Get him the hell out of my things!”

  “No can do.”

  “Bob?” He appealed to Norse, watching from outside the door. The psychologist reluctantly stepped into the room, glancing around. “It’s for your own good, sport.”

  Moss swore, backed out from under the bed and stood up, winded. “Nothing.” The astrophysicist looked disgusted, at Lewis and at the world.

  “What in the hell is going on!”

  The three others looked at each other, confirming, and then Norse spoke. “That’s what we want to ask you. Mickey’s meteorite is missing.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What we have here is a fascinating sociological situation.” Robert Norse was enjoying their dilemma.

  The others looked at the psychologist sourly. Mickey Moss and Rod Cameron hadn’t slept and Lewis was still groggy from having been awakened. The four were crowded into the station manager’s office next to Comms, the radio communication center of the base. It was tight, hot and electric with tension.

  “Fucking swell,” Cameron muttered.

  “What time is it, anyway?” Lewis asked sourly.

  “Three-thirty.”

  “Three-thirty in the morning?”

  “Stop whining. The sun’s up.” It was a sour attempt at levity. The sun was always up, until it went down in a couple weeks and stayed there. Already the outside was a world of blue shadow.

  “Something of unknown value,” Norse went on, “disappears in a tiny community from which there is no possibility of a getaway. Why? Who? How?”

  “The why is obvious,” Moss rumbled. “Our newest member, Mr. Lewis here, somehow called attention to the stone by his arrival and lack of discretion. The motive is money.”

  “Money?”

  “He confirmed that I’d discovered a scientifically important meteorite. The right kind can be valuable.”

  Cameron turned to Lewis. “Is that true, Jed?”

  Lewis looked at Moss warily, miffed that scientist had searched him. “I agreed it might be important.” How much should he say? “Rich people will pay a lot for a piece of outer space. It’s a fad.”

  “What kind of money?”

  “Throwing figures around will only encourage thievery,” Moss cautioned.

  “I’d say the thief’s already encouraged,” Norse countered.

  Jed looked uncomfortably at Moss. The astronomer shrugged gloomily. “One entrepreneur put tiny slices in Lucite cubes and sold them on the Home Shopping Network,” Lewis finally said. “Hundred bucks each.”

  “Nice payday?”

  “An intact one, from the South Pole, that could come from the Mars or the Moon...who knows? Thousands per gram.”

  “Which means…?” Norse prompted.

  Moss was looking at the floor. Lewis shrugged. “Five million dollars.”

  “You’re kidding,” Cameron interjected.

  “Maybe more.”

  “No way.”

  “If there’s any microscopic evidence of fossil life the value becomes...astronomical. Pun intended.”

  “Jesus.” The station manager thought a moment. “But that’s not an issue, not down here. By treaty, you can’t sell anything found in Antarctica. It’s against international law.”

  Lewis’ tone was flat. “That’s good to know.”

  “People down here don’t care about money.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Cameron looked at Moss. “You knew this?”

  “In theoretical terms,” the astrophysicist said blandly. “The price is irrelevant to the science. When Sparco said he’d be willing to use a geologist who could also give a quick judgment on the find, I was delighted. It seemed harmless, and Lewis here said he needed a job. But perhaps he concluded he could earn more another way.”

  “Meaning what?” Lewis asked.

  “That you’re the thief.” Moss looked at him squarely, waiting for denial, and then waiting for any kind of response at all. Lewis refused to give it to him.

  “I’m sorry young man, this may be completely unfair,” the astrophysicist finally went on with less certainty, “but I prefer not to be oblique. You have the knowledge to market such a rock, the skill to assess its true value, and possibly the need and bitterness as a fired petroleum engineer to hock it. When the rock disappeared I was forced to think about it from your point of view. To come down to study weather is a detour from your primary career. To come down for a meteorite from Mars or the Moon, discovered at the South Pole - that’s very good pay for enduring a single winter.”

  Norse was looking at Moss with amused interest.

  “Stealing something when you can’t get away makes no sense at all,” Lewis said slowly. “And I wasn’t fired, I quit.”

  “That’s what you say. My point is, we don’t really know what your story is and its disappearance is coincidental with your arrival.”

  “The common knowledge that there is a meteorite apparently came with my arrival, but not from anything I said. People were speculating about what you found for months. Inviting down a geologist simply confirmed it.”

  “And how do you know that?” Moss demanded.

  “Because his emissary” - Jed pointed to Norse - “told me so. Abby Dixon.”

  “Who?”

  “The computer technician,” Cameron explained.

  Moss thought. “Oh yes. The cute one.” He squinted at Lewis. “You’re saying she’s the thief?”

  “No, I’m saying anyone might have known enough to lift it from your file cabinet.”

  “Aha! But it wasn’t in my file cabinet! I’d hidden it!”

  Lewis threw up his arms in exasperation. “Then how could I or anyone else have taken it?”

  Moss opened his mouth and then closed it, looking troubled. “I thought you’d seen me. And guessed.”

  “Seen what?”

  “That he drove out to the solar observatory on the plateau at midnight when it was closed down for the season and there was no scientific reason to go there,” Norse said quietly. “It appears Doctor Moss, in trying to hide his find, betrayed it.”

  Lewis was surprised. So it had been Moss he’d seen.

  Moss turned to Norse. “You saw?”

  “I heard about it at breakfast,” the psychologist said dryly. “I don’t know how many people saw you, but your snowmobile trip so soon after Jed arrived set tongues to wagging. You might as well have buried it with ceremony at the Pole stake.”

  “I thought people were supposed to sleep,” Moss groused. “And I informed my colleagues I had to double-check the winterization.”

  “Well, the general consensus is that was bullshit.”

  The astrophysicist looked embarrassed for only a moment. “Which you told Abby Dixon about,” Moss suddenly accused Lewis.

  “You’re not getting the point. It was more like she told me.”

  “Mickey, did you e-mail colleagues in the States about your find?” Cameron asked.

  “Just Sparco.”

  “Who could have e-mailed who knows who, with word bouncing back down here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  Moss scowled. “Yes.” He didn’t like the suggestion he was somehow at fault. “And irrelevant. Word leaked. The issue now is the theft.”

  “So what do you want?” Cameron asked slowly.

  The astrophysicist took a deep breath. “We know Lewis here didn’t hide it in his room, and I’m not surprised. But a thief had to hide it somewhere. I want to search the station. Every bed, every handbag. Anyone who is innocent shouldn’t object. If the thief wishes to confess and give it back, I’m prepared to end the matter for the winter: We all have to live with each other. If not - then I want it found.” He waited.

  “He doesn’t have probable cause to search anybody,” Lewis objected.

  “Yes I do. This is a very tiny village, young man, and I have the certainty that my meteorite is in the hands of someone in our colony of t
wenty-six souls.”

  “That doesn’t make you the Gestapo.”

  The astrophysicist was miffed at this challenge to his authority. “Nor do you have the right, as a raw newcomer, to call names! Your obstruction is exactly the tactic of a trapped thief!”

  “Hey! Time out!” Cameron lifted his arms, looking alarmed and tired. He was irritated with Moss’s accusations but there was a subtle issue of rank here. Rod was station manager but Michael M. Moss was the quintessential Old Antarctic Explorer: an astrophysicist who’d been doing work at the Pole since the 1960s. The National Science Foundation respected this kind of longevity. They liked the guys who came back. Ignoring Moss was a political risk because word of any snub would get back to Washington. The man had become cranky and vindictive as he aged, and it was dangerous to cross him.

  “Mickey, we all operate on mutual trust down here,” Cameron tried. “You know that. We depend on each other for survival. Making accusations of thievery is like throwing gasoline on a fire.”

  “So is stealing. I’ve been here longer, and trusted longer, than anybody.”

  “Well, I didn’t take your rock,” Lewis said. He was disappointed that Cameron was allowing himself to be bullied by the headstrong scientist. It wasn’t right.

  “Then I want this place turned over until we find out who did.”

  Cameron groaned. “Mickey...”

  “I’m not going to let this pass, Rod.”

  “Are you going to be searched?” Lewis asked.

  Moss snorted. “Me! I’m the victim here!”

  “How do we know that?”

  “You’re presumptuous, fingie!”

  “Not as presumptuous as you!”

  “I’m afraid Lewis has a point,” Norse interjected quietly.

  Moss looked at the psychologist with annoyance. “Pardon?”

  “That you have the plainest motive of all. If the rock seems to have disappeared, you could smuggle and sell it without arousing suspicion. If you have a grudge against someone, like Lewis here, all you have to do is hide the rock and accuse him of stealing it. In fact, you could plant it on him, or anyone else. Maybe you’re looking for sympathy. Maybe you’ve decided the meteorite is actually worthless but still want recognition for what you almost had. I can think of a thousand reasons to suspect you.” He shrugged.

  “You have a devious mind,” Cameron complimented.

  “He’s full of shit,” the astrophysicist corrected.

  “Thank you,” Norse said. “Occupational requirement.”

  “What you’ve suggested is ridiculous,” Moss went on.

  “I’m just saying that we’re dealing with Pandora’s Box here. You throw accusations around and human emotions begin to burn like gunpowder. We need to think about this carefully. A disappearance occurring in a group small enough for everyone to be searched and questioned, if it comes to that. Does the thief wish to be caught? Did he hide the meteorite where it can’t be found? Do we arouse suspicions? A dilemma as old as the first sailing ships, I’m sure.”

  “I’m glad you’re having so much fun, Doc,” Cameron said.

  Lewis’ mind was whirring. Moss? Abby? Who had the most plausible motive?

  “Investigating this could prove a nightmare,” Norse said. “However, it’s just the kind of emotional dilemma I was hoping to explore.”

  “Then maybe you stole the rock.” Cameron sighed. He was visibly aging.

  “Indeed. I should be among the first searched, if we decide to take that step. And Doctor Moss. Just as we searched Jed. Anyone with knowledge or motive. If we truly want to investigate this we’re going to be making a list and checking it twice. So, the question is indeed who? Who knew about the meteorite?”

  The others looked uncomfortable, thinking. “Well, I did,” Cameron conceded. “I was skeptical about the Lewis hire, a geologist in a weather job. Mickey filled me in on what’s going on. I probably should have locked up the damn thing. Except there’s no place to lock it.”

  Norse made a check mark in the air with his finger. “Yes, of course. Lewis?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. But Abby said it was common knowledge. Or at least rumor. The meteorite craze is no secret. I’d look for someone who needed money.”

  “People down here don’t care about money,” Norse quipped, quoting Cameron.

  The station manager scowled. “I heard Geller’s got some debt,” he allowed. “Tyson’s talked about money. Alexi doesn’t have any in Russia...”

  “Prestige?” Norse interrupted.

  The station manager shrugged. “That’s wide open. Any scientist. Anyone jealous. Anyone who doesn’t like Mickey...”

  Moss looked annoyed.

  “Which means that Lewis here could actually be a fall-guy for the real thief,” Norse concluded. “They wait until he arrives and lift the meteorite. Voila`, the fingie gets fingered. By accusing Lewis, you might be playing into their hand.”

  Moss looked at Norse with frank dislike. “I despise your profession, you know.”

  “And I think you’re close to retirement after an illustrious career that has yielded you little fame and less money. We have no idea what you intended to do with the rock.”

  Moss jerked as if stung. Lewis was surprised at the psychologist’s apparent willingness to make a powerful enemy. Willingness to come to Jed’s aid.

  “So, Doc, do we turn over the mattresses?” Cameron asked the psychologist, his tone strained by the sparring. “Strip-search the inmates?”

  “That’s your decision, of course. I’m just the observer. But we can consider the pros and cons. The danger of any search is it accomplishes nothing while pissing people off. The advantage is it could recover the meteorite.”

  “How much does that opinion cost?” Moss asked sarcastically.

  Norse ignored him.

  “Maybe we should sleep on it,” Cameron said.

  “No!” Moss objected. “That just gives the thief time!”

  “I don’t advise that either,” Norse said. “Make a decision. We should all pledge ourselves to secrecy about this discussion, of course - but I guarantee the dilemma will be all over the base anyway inside of an hour.”

  “You don’t have a very high opinion of us.”

  “I don’t have a very high opinion of human nature.”

  Cameron looked gloomy. He was thinking of the station report he’d have to file. “Would a thief really be stupid enough to put it in his room?”

  “Yes. Because he might not be after a rock, or money, so much as to satisfy some other psychological need. Criminals betray themselves with regularity. A surprise search could work. Failure, however, might simply encourage our trouble-maker. There’s no right answer.”

  “We could just forget about the damn rock,” Cameron said.

  Norse smiled. “Yes. Forget about several million dollars.”

  “I don’t want to turn the station upside down.”

  Moss glared. “If you don’t I will. There’s science at stake too, if that rock really hails from Mars. Or even if it doesn’t.”

  Cameron closed his eyes. “People are going to go ape-shit, Mickey.”

  Moss looked implacable. “I already have.”

  “Perhaps there’s another solution,” Norse suggested.

  “What’s that?” Cameron asked gloomily.

  “Jed Lewis here represents opportunity.” The psychologist nodded toward the newcomer. “He’s a geologist. Our resident expert on all things stony. He should be motivated to clear his name. So, I propose two things. First, that with his permission, we search his workplace as well. I don’t think we’ll find anything, even if he’s the thief, but it simply eliminates one of the variables. Then search each of the rest of us in turn, right now, with all four along. Let’s not have suspicions linger that any of us have anything obvious to hide.”

  His eyes polled the others. No one spoke to object.

  “Second, let’s enlist Lewis as our detective.”

  “What
do you mean?” Moss said slowly.

  “Lewis simply tells the truth. He admits he was brought down partly to check out the meteorite. He quietly lets slip it’s missing and asks for guidance on likely suspects. These are people who’ve been together for four months. They know each other by now. Perhaps a suspect emerges.”

  “I’m going to be a private eye?”

  “A discreet investigator. You’re going to be yourself, with a newcomer’s curiosity. It’s not Rod, laying down the law. It’s not Mickey, looking like a steaming bull. It’s you - asking a few friends for help. If you handle it right, no one will be upset.”

  What friends? “Another of your spies,” he clarified.

  “Mickey’s spy.”

  Lewis looked at the others, considering. Poking around was unlikely to make him very popular. Yet if he didn’t, he’d be hung with Moss’s presumption that he had something to do with the disappearance. A lousy choice. “What do I get if I find it?”

  “Your good name back,” Norse said.

  “I never lost my good name.”

  “You name and a recommendation for future employment,” Moss said.

  “No.” Lewis shook his head. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t get that anyway. I’m doing my job. I didn’t take your damn rock. I want something else.”

  “What, then?” Cameron asked.

  “An apology for dragging me into this.” He pointed at Moss. “From him.”

  The astrophysicist scowled. Moss was not the type to apologize to anybody. “Find it first,” he said grudgingly.

  “An apology for rousting me out of bed.”

  “Find it,” Moss growled, “and I’ll be fair.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “That you don’t want me as an enemy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Now what, Sherlock?

  Lewis stood indecisively at the junction of tunnels near the entrance to the dome. Two corrugated steel archways, both completely buried under the snow, branched at either arm. To his left were the generators, gym and garage. BioMed, the sickbay, was to his right, tucked into the same arch that held the station fuel supply. The tunnels were like a huge half-culvert, cold and dimly lit, and a scuffed layer of dirty snow coated their plywood floors like old sawdust, dry and brown. The medical facility was a windowless metal box the size of a truck trailer. Inside this makeshift hospital, Dr. Nancy Hodge dispensed everything from useless advice on the inevitable polar crud - “We can’t escape each other’s viruses, so deal with it” - to better-appreciated painkillers, stitches, and antiseptics. If seriously hurt, their lives were in her hands. If desperately ill or wounded, there was probably little she could do.