Beyond the Ice Limit

27

AT THE REQUEST of Ronald—a request it had seemed wise to comply with—Sam McFarlane left his battered roller bag in Dr. Hassenpflug’s office and followed the burly, red-haired orderly down echoing corridors and beneath the ornately carved archways of the Neo-Gothic mansion named Dearborne Park. At last, a door of heavy steel sprang open with the clicking of locks, revealing an elegant reception room. Yet as McFarlane looked around he realized this was an orchestrated illusion. The expensive landscapes in oil that hung on the walls were encased in clear Plexiglas. The plush armchairs and sofas had their legs discreetly bolted to the floor. There were no sharp objects anywhere in sight. This, he realized, was not only a reception room, but also an asylum—a lavish, expensive asylum.

At the far end of the room, an elderly man sat in a high-backed chair. The stiffness and rigidity of the man’s posture radiated a pride that was at odds with the straitjacket snugged tightly around his arms and torso. The man looked at him, his blue eyes glittering with recognition. An orderly had been feeding him some kind of crimson liquid through a plastic cup fitted with a straw. “Take that away,” Palmer Lloyd said in a sharp aside. Then he turned his focus back on McFarlane.

“Sam. Come closer.”

But McFarlane did not move. He’d recognized Lloyd’s distinctive voice immediately, of course, when he’d received that call on his cell phone in Santa Fe. Ever since, he’d been mentally preparing himself for this meeting. But now, actually seeing the man in person, he was unprepared for the storm of emotions—anger, hatred, guilt, remorse, grief—that washed over him.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asked, his voice sounding strange and husky in his own ears.

Lloyd’s seamed but still vigorous-looking face broke into a smile. “Ha ha!” he laughed. “That’s the Sam I remember.” He pierced McFarlane with his eyes. “That’s the Sam I need. Come closer.”

This time, McFarlane complied.

“Guess who came to see me a few weeks ago, Sam?” Lloyd asked.

McFarlane did not reply. He was shocked by the look in the man’s eyes. The failure of the expedition, the sinking of the Rolvaag, had, he knew, touched all its survivors in one way or another. He’d heard Lloyd had taken it particularly badly. But to see this powerful, confident billionaire reduced to such a state was difficult to take in.

“Eli Glinn came to see me,” Lloyd said.

“Glinn?”

“Ah! Ah, ha! I can see just by looking at your face that you hate him as much as I do.”

McFarlane grasped the arms of a nearby chair, lowered himself into it. “What did he want?”

“What do you suppose the son of a bitch wanted? What we all want.” Lloyd glanced at the two orderlies, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “To kill that thing.”

McFarlane went rigid. For the past five years, as he’d drifted from one place to another—unable to hold a job, disdainful of attachments, restless, aimless, yet never for one minute at peace—he’d been haunted by their shared past. He knew that “thing” Lloyd was referring to. It had never been far from his mind.

Looking intently at McFarlane’s expression, Lloyd nodded. “We both hate the man. Don’t we, Sam? It was his fault—all his fault.”

“Not just his,” McFarlane said. “Yours, too.”

Lloyd sat back up in his chair. “Mine!” He gave a harsh laugh. “Oh—I suppose you’re blaming me for roping you into the expedition in the first place? For ruining your life?” His voice rose tremulously. “As I recall, your life was ruined already. Have you forgotten the Tornarssuk meteorite? I gave you a chance for redemption. It was Glinn, not I, who took that chance away—and you know it.”

The orderly named Ronald, standing near the door, stirred. “Don’t excite the patient,” he warned.

Immediately Lloyd became calm again. He gestured for the other orderly to give him a sip from the plastic cup. “What have you been doing with yourself, Sam?” he asked in a quieter voice. “Other than peddling worthless meteorites, I mean.”

“This and that.”

“Such as?”

McFarlane shrugged. “Taught geology at a community college for a while. Worked at a steel mill in Braddock, Pennsylvania.”

“But you couldn’t stay still, could you? The demons kept driving you on, right? Ha! Well, it turns out you’re not the only one. Glinn, too. He came to see me with that right-hand man of his, Garza, and some younger fellow, can’t recall his name. Seems he’s been haunted by that thing we planted in the South Atlantic all this time, too.” Lloyd leaned in again. “Except his demons are worse than ours. He didn’t throw the dead man’s switch. He sank the Rolvaag. He killed a hundred and eight people. Worst of all: he left that thing there, all these five years. He let it grow. Grow, grow, until now it’s—”

“Mr. Lloyd,” Ronald said, mildly but firmly.

“What?” Lloyd said, craning his neck around to look at the orderly. “I’m just talking to an old friend.” He turned back to McFarlane. Now his tone became hurried, almost anxious, as if he knew his time was short. “I’ve thought about Glinn’s visit, ever since he left. I’ve thought about nothing else. He’s going back there, Sam—after all these years. I thought his inaction was cowardice. But it wasn’t that. It was a question of money. Now he’s got it. And he’s down there by now. God only knows what’s going on there, this very minute.”

He made a gesture from beneath the straitjacket, as if desirous of grasping McFarlane’s hand. The chains on his legs clinked as he shifted in his chair. “But I know what’s going to happen. If you have any brains, you know, too. He’s going to fail—again. He’s born to failure; he seeks it out. The patterns of thought that doomed the Rolvaag are going to doom this expedition, too. He’s acting egotistically, judgment clouded. He’s got no humility, no sense of the uncontrollable randomness of events. He’s made a living out of solving engineering problems, terrestrial engineering problems—and this isn’t like that at all. Oh, no, not at all.”

“Why are you telling me this?” McFarlane asked.

“Why do you think, man? You have to go down there. He needs your expertise. Your familiarity with those bad old days. Your ability to stand up to him, tell him he’s wrong to his face. Damn it, he needs somebody who was as—as close—to that thing as he was. He needs an interfering angel—someone as wrecked as he is!”

“Go yourself,” McFarlane said.

For a moment, Lloyd stared at him in surprise. Then he dissolved into laughter once again. “Go myself? These gentlemen would protest. Besides, even if they let me out of these restraints, I’d never make it past the front door. I’ve thought of a hundred, a thousand, ways to kill myself. I’d be dead within sixty seconds of being free.” Lloyd stopped laughing. “Look, it’s not a question of money, you have to go, and go now, I’ll bankroll you—”

“So you’re as big a coward as you thought Glinn was,” McFarlane interrupted. “You know what’s going to happen—what that seed will do to the world—and you can’t stand the thought of it. So you want out before it happens.”

“Sir—” Ronald said in another warning tone.

“Well, you know what? You’re right. We’re all dead—or will be, soon. And a good thing. I’ve wandered the world for five years now, and in all that time I haven’t seen a whole hell of a lot worth saving. I hope that thing does destroy humanity—before we go out and ruin the galaxy. Good riddance to us. And you especially.”

For a moment, Lloyd stared in mute surprise. Then his face colored with rage. “You…How dare you come here and patronize me with your insectile world-weariness, your faux ennui! You’re worse than he is. You disgust me! You’re dogshit! You’re…no, wait! Don’t go. Come back, Sam—don’t go! Don’t go!”

But McFarlane had risen and was heading quickly for the door—even as the orderlies were hurrying to escort him bodily from Dearborne Park.