“HELP us, please!” Pulling on his coat, Max shouted to the dog trainers as he raced outside. “That person—Ingrid—we have to follow her! She stole from us!”
The young woman stared at him through her furry hood. “Excuse me, who are you?” she said, her voice making thick white puffs in the air.
Behind her, the guy was hooking up about a dozen dogs for another training session. He looked up at the commotion. “Stole? Is this some kind of joke?”
Now Nigel was strutting out of the building, with Bitsy and Alex on either side. “My good man,” Nigel said, holding out a business card. “Does this look like a joking face?”
“Wait, who are you?”
“Dr. Cesar Untermeyer,” Nigel said. “Perhaps I may have a word with you both . . .”
At the sound of that name, the two young workers snapped to attention. Nigel walked them back to the building, blabbering on about inspections and proper behavior.
“What was that about?” Bitsy mouthed.
Alex shrugged.
But Max’s eyes were trained off into the field. Ingrid was heading across the flat, icy plain toward the horizon. There wouldn’t be much time before she was out of sight. “We have to get her, now!”
He eyed the sled. One foot on each runner. That was how it was done. He had seen it.
Max ran to it and got himself in position, gripping the wooden crossbar.
“Whoa—are you kidding, Max?” Alex hissed. “You think you’re going to operate this thing?”
“It’s easier than a balloon,” Max said. “I saw them. Get on! She’s getting away.”
Bitsy sat on the sled, and Alex reluctantly followed. The dogs seemed to sense something, and they began whining and wagging their tails.
A door slammed to Max’s right, and Nigel came bolting out of the building, giggling. He was carrying a small rucksack. “The game is afoot!”
He leaped across the snow, did a turn in midair, and scampered onto the sled. “No seat belts?”
“Who’s Dr. Cesar Untermeyer?” Bitsy asked.
Nigel shrugged. “I saw the name at the top of the plaque as we walked in. I figured he was important. I sent those two off on an errand so we would have freedom to steal this sled. I brought goggles for us all. Under the circumstances, I thought them prudent.”
As Max took a pair and slipped them on, Nigel slipped in behind Alex and Bitsy. “Hike!” he shouted to the dogs. “Hike like crazy and follow her!”
The dogs dug in hard, and the sled lurched forward. Max nearly fell off, and Nigel let out a little scream.
Max’s legs were stiff. He bent them. He had to stay loose. The dogs were doing their job, pulling with a smooth forward motion. “Hi-i-i-i-ke!”
The wind bit against his cheeks. Flecks of ice flew up from the runners onto his goggles. From where he stood, the rise and fall of the huskies’ backs was like one churning mass of fur. It felt like they would take off into the sky. He thought about the sounds of their trip—the jet’s whine, the echo of the Greek cave, the chug of the railroad, and churn of the Kozhim, the grunting of Nepali yaks, and the balloon’s buffeting winds—but nothing compared to this. The ropes’ rhythmic slap, the footfalls and chuffing breaths of each dog, the steady ssss of the runners were like a song of whispers.
The dogs didn’t seem to be seeing Ingrid anymore, but Max could make out a trace of her shadow in the distance. He steered them as best he could. “Gee! No, not that much gee! A little to the haw! That’s it!”
They were picking up speed now. Ingrid seemed to have stopped. Behind her, a wall of white was rising like a curtain. What little was left of the sun had dimmed, as if someone had flicked a switch. She was turning toward him, Max could tell. He wished he had his binoculars because she seemed to be gesturing.
In a moment, a wash of whiteness wiped her out of sight like an eraser. In the sudden blast of wind, it seemed to be snowing upward. “Hike!” Max shouted. “Hike!”
“Did anyone look at a weather forecast?” Nigel called from the sled.
Max could barely even see him. He gripped tighter to the bar. Either Bitsy or Alex screamed. Or maybe it was Nigel.
The dogs were barking now. A not-too-distant barking answered them. Max could see a shadow up ahead, flickering in and out of the whiteness. Maybe twenty feet away. “Good work!” he yelled. “Whoa!”
As the sled came to a stop, Max jumped off. “Hold hands!” he shouted. “Or we’ll lose each other!”
He gripped Alex’s hand, she gripped Bitsy’s, and she gripped Nigel’s. Max trudged forward, guessing as best he could where Ingrid was standing.
“Ingrid!” Max shouted. “Ingrid, where are you?”
From behind, Ingrid’s voice said, “Whoops, passed you right by. I recommend you turn. Slowly.”
Max felt Alex’s hand tighten, then let go. They all did as she said and clasped hands again. Ingrid stood facing them, finally visible at only six feet away. The backpack was hooked around her shoulders.
In her right hand she held a gun.
“By the ghost of Gaston . . .” Nigel said.
Ingrid flashed a smile. “Do you know what leopard seals do? They swim in channels under the ice, coming up for air in strategic blowholes. When they see a shadow moving overhead, they follow it from underneath. If the prey approaches the hole—surprise! They leap up at the last moment, jaws wide, ready for dinner.”
“So . . . you’re the leopard seal in this story,” Nigel said, “and we’re—”
She moved the gun toward him. Nigel swallowed the rest of his sentence in a choked yeep. “I brought this gun for protection against predators like the leopard seal, not you! This continent is brutal and unforgiving, full of traps and fissures and murderous tricks of nature. Just as it was at the turn of the twentieth century for those who first set foot here—Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Mawson. Imagine their surprise to find that someone had been here before them. A man who had not only lived to return home, but who had never taken any credit for the discovery. Not a hardy explorer but a science fiction writer, a French ex–stock broker named Verne! The embarrassment was overwhelming. These men agreed to suppress the secret, and after they died it was forgotten—but for a small, secret group of researchers employed by a powerful private company.”
“Don’t tell me,” Max said. “Niemand Enterprises?”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Nigel said. “You’ve been in touch with Gloria Bentham, haven’t you? This was a trap.”
A noisy rush of frigid wind blasted, but Ingrid stood solid. “Most rational people scoffed that an amateur explorer like Jules Verne could have reached this impossible place. But some, like Gloria, persisted. You see, Verne left clues, if you knew how to look for them. Clues in the ice.” Ingrid smiled. “She is a visionary woman, Mr. Hanscombe, wouldn’t you say? And you, Bitsy, she always wished you had followed in her footsteps. Have you discussed this with these friends of yours? Have you told them who you really are?”
“Just give us the pack, you blowhard!” Bitsy said.
She flew at Ingrid. They both fell to the snow and rolled. In the blowing snow, the two women flashed in and out of sight.
“Get the gun!” Alex said, jumping on top of them. Max moved closer, looking for signs of the weapon, afraid it might go off in his direction.
There. A flash of steel.
As he reached down, Bitsy bit hard into Ingrid’s wrist. With a scream, Ingrid let go of the gun. It sailed into the whiteness. Max dove after it, flailing in the snow to find it, but it was buried. Lost.
Now Ingrid was jumping to her feet, backing away. “I came here to do some good in this world. To find secrets from a time when the world had no disease. This has been my life, and you greedy little thieves are not about to—”
Her sentence ended there, and so did she.
Max had to blink. She was gone.
“Ingrid?” he called out, stepping forward.
He tried to pull his foot back. But there was nothing under it. As his body fell forward, Max stared down into a bottomless black crevasse.