Free Zodiac Station by Tom Harper Page B

trip to the crevasse, I only half believed it. But that didn’t mean I trusted these people. Was it really possible? Three of them clearly had enough against Hagger they couldn’t even pretend to have liked him. But then if you’d killed him, you’d probably hide your motive a bit better. Or double-bluff. Or …
    If I thought like that, I’d tie myself in knots until I doubted everything. Meanwhile, Quam was still standing. ‘I think an apology’s in order.’
    Like a lot of Americans, Eastman had a naturally theatrical presence. He looked around the table and gave a small bow. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed your British, uh, sensibilities.’ Heavy with sarcasm. ‘But let’s not pretend this was something it’s not. He’s not a martyr to science. He died; it was an accident. Move on.’
    ‘If it was an accident,’ I said. I thought nobody heard me.
    Eastman checked his watch. ‘Isn’t it time to get the mag reading?’
    The others suddenly took a keen interest in their half-empty plates. I was too slow; I caught his eye.
    ‘Anderson’s the rookie – he should go.’
    ‘He’s going home tomorrow,’ Quam pointed out.
    ‘Then this is his only chance.’
    I wasn’t going to be haggled over. I stood. ‘What do I have to do?’
    ‘There’s a logbook in the mag hut. Write down the number on the readout, and the time. Wait ten minutes, do it again. That’s it.’
    I was glad to get out, even with all the fiddle of layering up again. I took a gun from the rack by the door – already second nature – and clomped down the steel steps. The cold air pinched my nose dry; my eyes watered. I’d forgotten my neck-warmer, and by the time I was halfway across the base my chin stung as if I had lockjaw. That was the thing with Zodiac. No slack.
    I stopped at the flag line, where the ring that surrounded the magnetometer hut met the base perimeter. A sign warned me,
NO METAL OBJECTS BEYOND THIS POINT
.
    I didn’t see anywhere to put the gun. After a moment’s thought, I laid it down on the snow. Strange to say, I felt incomplete without it, like taking off a wedding ring. Walking across the circle of snow to the hut, the immensity of my surroundings pressed in on me. Twilight had fallen; a few stars were bright enough to show in the sky. I checked the shadows for signs of danger, ready to run back for the gun if I saw anything that looked like a bear.
    The hut was a simple, one-room wooden cabin, almost colder than the air outside. A wooden table stood in the centre, two grey boxes on top of it like outmoded stereo components. The logbook lay beside them, a battered exercise book with a pencil hanging off it on a piece of string.
    I wiped a layer of frost off the readout and studied it. A thin digital line scribbled up and down the screen, recording infinitesimal oscillations in something I couldn’t even imagine. I looked for an obvious number to write down, and didn’t see it.
    In the chill quiet, the steps in the snow sounded as loud as bubblegum popping. I looked at the door; I listened. The steps came closer. Two legs, or four?
    There was no lock on the hut, and my gun was back at the flag line. Could a polar bear open a door? Could he fit through? I’d thought the bear warnings were just talk, a fairy tale to frighten new arrivals. But human beings are uniquely bad at judging risk. The longer something doesn’t happen, the more confident we become it won’t. We don’t see the sand running out of the glass.
    The door swung in. I almost whimpered with relief when I saw it was Dr Kennedy, bundled up in a snowmobile suit and a loud tartan scarf.
    ‘I hope I didn’t scare you.’
    ‘Were you worried I’d screw up the measurements?’
    Kennedy shut the door and tipped back his hood. ‘I wanted a word in private. About Hagger.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this …’ Kennedy rummaged in his suit and produced a bottle. He offered it to me. ‘Medicinal supplies.’
    I took a slug and