Sarah opened her eyes and saw a huge blue starburst, streaks radiating outward in all directions. Her forehead was icy cold, and she had terrible pain in her neck. Tentatively, she shifted her body, checking each of her limbs. They hurt, but she could move all of them except her right leg, which was pinned under something. She coughed and paused, taking stock. She was lying on her side, her face shoved up against the windshield, which she had shattered with her forehead. Her eyes were just inches from the fractured glass. She eased away, and slowly looked around.

It was dark, a kind of twilight. Faint light coming from somewhere to her left. But she could see that the whole cab of the snowtrack was lying on its side, the treads up against the ice wall. They must have landed on a ledge of some kind. She looked upward—the mouth of the crevasse was surprisingly close, maybe thirty or forty yards above her. It was near enough to give her a burst of encouragement.

Next she looked down, trying to see Evans. But it was dark everywhere beneath her. She couldn’t see him at all. Her eyes slowly adjusted. She gasped. She saw her true situation.

There was no ledge.

The snowtrack had tumbled into the narrowing crevasse, and wedged itself sideways within the crevasse walls. The treads were against one wall, the roof of the cab against the other, and the cab itself was suspended over the inky downward gash. The door on Evans’s side hung open.

Evans was not in the cab.

He had fallen out.

Into the blackness.

“Peter?”

No answer.

“Peter, can you hear me?”

She listened. There was nothing. No sound or movement.

Nothing at all.

And then the realization hit her: She was alone down there. A hundred feet down in a freezing crevasse, in the middle of a trackless ice field, far off the road, miles from anywhere.

And she realized, with a chill, that this was going to be her tomb.

Bolden—or whoever he was—had planned it very well, Sarah thought. He had taken their transponder. He could drive a few miles, drop it down the deepest crevasse he could find, and then go back to the base. When the rescue parties set out, they would head for the transponder. It would be nowhere near where she was. The party might search for days in a deep crevasse before giving up.

And if they widened the search? They still wouldn’t find the snowtrack. Even though it was only about forty yards below the surface, it might as well be four hundred yards below. It was too deep to be seen by a passing helicopter, or even a vehicle as it drove by. Not that any vehicle would. They would think the snowtrack had gone off the marked road, and they would search along the edge of the road. Not way out here, in the middle of the ice field. The road was seventeen miles long. They would spend days searching.

No, Sarah thought. They would never find her.

And even if she could get herself to the surface, what then? She had no compass, no map, no GPS. No radio—it lay smashed beneath her knee. She didn’t even know in what direction Weddell Station might be from her present location.

Of course, she thought, she had a bright red parka that would be visible from a distance, and she had supplies, food, equipment—all the equipment that guy had talked about, before they set out. What was it, exactly? She vaguely remembered something about climbing supplies. Crampons and ropes.

Sarah bent down, managed to free herself from a toolbox that had pinned her foot to the floor, and then crawled to the rear of the cab, balancing carefully to avoid the gaping, wide-open door beneath her. In the perpetual twilight of the crevasse, she saw the supply locker. It was crumpled slightly from the impact, and she couldn’t get it open.

She went back to the toolbox, opened it, took out a hammer and a screwdriver, and spent the better part of the next half hour trying to pry the locker open. At last, with a metallic screech, the door swung wide. She peered inside.

The locker was empty.

No food, no water, no climbing supplies. No space blankets, no heaters.

Nothing at all.

Sarah took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She remained calm, refusing to panic. She considered her options. Without ropes and crampons, she could not get to the surface. What could she use instead? She had a toolbox. Could she use the screwdriver as an ice axe? Probably too small. Perhaps she could disassemble the gearshift and make an ice axe out of the parts. Or perhaps she could take apart some of the tread and find parts to use.

She had no crampons, but if she could find sharp pointed things, screws or something like that, she could push them through the soles of her boots and then climb. And for a rope? Some sort of cloth perhaps…She looked around the interior. Maybe she could tear the fabric off the seats? Or cut it off in strips? That might work.

In this way, she kept her spirits up. She kept herself moving forward. Even if her chance of success was small, there was still a chance. A chance.

She focused on that.

Where was Kenner? What would he do when he heard the radio message? He probably had, already. Would he come back to Weddell? Almost certainly. And he would look for that guy, the one they thought of as Bolden. But Sarah was pretty sure that guy had disappeared.

And with his disappearance, her hopes for rescue.

The crystal of her watch was smashed. She didn’t know how long she had been down there, but she noticed that it was darker than before. The gap above her was not as bright. Either the weather on the surface was changing, or the sun was low on the horizon. That would mean she had been down there for two or three hours already.

She was aware of a stiffening in her body—not just from the fall, but also, she realized, because she was cold. The cab had lost its heat.

It occurred to her that perhaps she could start the motor, and get heat going. It was worth a try. She flicked on the headlights, and one of them worked, glaring off the ice wall. So there was still electricity from the battery.

She turned the key. The generator made a grinding sound. The engine did not kick on.

And she heard a voice yell, “Hey!”

Sarah looked up, toward the surface. She saw nothing but the gap and the strip of gray sky beyond.

“Hey!”

She squinted. Was somebody really up there? She yelled back: “Hey! I’m down here!”

“I know where you are,” the voice said.

And then she realized the voice was coming from below her.

She looked down, into the depths of the crevasse.

“Peter?” she said.

“I’m fucking freezing,” he said. His voice floated up from the darkness.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. I can’t move. I’m wedged in some kind of cleft or something.”

“How far down are you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t turn my head to look up. I’m stuck, Sarah.” His voice trembled. He sounded frightened.

“Can you move at all?” she said.

“Just one arm.”

“Can you see anything?”

“Ice. I see a blue wall. It’s about two feet away.”

Sarah was straddling the open door, peering down into the crevasse, straining to see. It was very dark down there. But it seemed as if the crevasse narrowed quickly, farther down. If so, he might not be that far beneath her.

“Peter. Move your arm. Can you move your arm?”

“Yes.”

“Wave it.”

“I am.”

She didn’t see anything. Just darkness.

“Okay,” she said. “Stop.”

“Did you see me?”

“No.”

“Shit.” He coughed. “It’s really cold, Sarah.”

“I know. Hang on.”

She had to find a way to see down into the cleft. She looked under the dashboard, near where the fire extinguisher was clipped to the car wall. If there was a fire extinguisher, there was probably a flashlight there, too. They would be sure to have a flashlight…someplace.

Not under the dashboard.

Maybe the glove compartment. She opened it, shoved her hand in, feeling in the darkness. Crunching paper. Her fingers closed around a thick cylinder. She brought it out.

It was a flashlight.

She flicked it on. It worked. She shone it down into the depths of the crevasse.

“I see that,” Peter said. “I see the light.”

“Good,” she said. “Now swing your arm again.”

“I am.”

“Now?”

“I’m doing it now.”

She stared. “Peter, I don’t see—wait a minute.” She did see him—just the tips of his fingers in their red gloves, protruding briefly beyond the tractor treads, and the ice below.

“Peter.”

“What.”

“You’re very near me,” she said. “Just five or six feet below me.”

“Great. Can you get me out?”

“I could, if I had a rope.”

“There’s no rope?” he said.

“No. I opened the supply chest. There’s nothing at all.”

“But it’s not in the supply chest,” he said. “It’s under the seat.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I saw it. The ropes and stuff are under the passenger seat.”

She looked. The seat was on a steel base anchored firmly to the floor of the snowtrack. There were no doors or compartments in the base. It was difficult to maneuver around the seat to see, but she was sure: no doors. On a sudden impulse, she lifted up the seat cushion, and saw a compartment beneath it. The light of her flashlight revealed ropes, hooks, snow axes, crampons…

“Got it,” she said. “You were right. It’s all here.”

“Whew,” he said.

She brought the equipment out carefully, making sure none of it fell through the open door. Already her fingers were growing numb, and she felt clumsy as she held a fifty-foot length of nylon rope with a three-pronged ice hook at one end.

“Peter,” she said. “If I lower a rope, can you grab it?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

“Can you hold the rope tight, so I can pull you out?”

“I don’t know. I just have the one arm free. The other one’s pinned under me.”

“Are you strong enough to hold the rope with one arm?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, if I got my body partway out, and lost my grip…” His voice broke off. He sounded on the verge of tears.

“Okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m trapped, Sarah!”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, I’m trapped, I’m fucking trapped!” Now there was panic. “I’m going to die here!”

“Peter. Stop.” She was coiling the rope around her waist as she spoke. “It’s going to be all right. I have a plan.”

“What plan?”

“I’m going to lower an ice hook on the rope,” she said. “Can you hook it onto something? Like your belt?”

“Not my belt…No. I’m wedged in here, Sarah. I can’t move. I can’t reach my belt.”

She was trying to visualize his situation. He must be wedged in some sort of cleft in the ice. It was frightening just to imagine it. No wonder he was scared. “Peter,” she said, “can you hook it onto anything?”

“I’ll try.”

“Okay, here it comes,” she said, lowering the rope. The hook disappeared into the darkness. “Do you see it?”

“I see it.”

“Can you reach it?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll swing it toward you.” She turned her wrist gently, starting the rope in a lateral swing. The hook vanished out of sight, then swung back, then out of sight again.

“I can’t…keep doing it, Sarah.”

“I am.”

“I can’t get it, Sarah.”

“Keep trying.”

“It has to be lower.”

“Okay. How much lower?”

“About a foot.”

“Okay.” She lowered it a foot. “How’s that?”

“Good, now swing it.”

She did. She heard him grunting, but each time the hook swung back into view.

“I can’t do it, Sarah.”

“Yes you can. Keep trying.”

“I can’t. My fingers are too cold.”

“Keep trying,” she said. “Here it is again.”

“I can’t, Sarah, I can’t…Hey!”

“What?”

“I almost got it.”

Looking down, she saw the hook spinning when it came back into view. He’d touched it.

“Once more,” she said. “You’ll do it, Peter.”

“I’m trying, it’s just I have so little—I got it, Sarah. I got it!”

She gave a long sigh of relief.

He was coughing in the darkness. She waited.

“Okay,” he said. “I got it hooked on my jacket.”

“Where?”

“Right on the front. Just on my chest.”

She was visualizing that if the hook ripped free, it would tear right into his chin. “No, Peter. Hook it on the armpit.”

“I can’t, unless you pull me out a couple of feet.”

“Okay. Say when.”

He coughed. “Listen, Sarah. Are you strong enough to pull me out?”

She had avoided thinking about that. She just assumed that somehow she could. Of course she didn’t know how hard he was wedged in, but…“Yes,” she said. “I can do it.”

“Are you sure? I weigh a hundred and sixty.” He coughed again. “Maybe a little more. Maybe ten more.”

“I’ve got you tied off on the steering wheel.”

“Okay, but…don’t drop me.”

“I won’t drop you, Peter.”

There was a pause. “How much do you weigh?”

“Peter, you never ask a lady that question. Especially in LA.”

“We’re not in LA.”

“I don’t know how much I weigh,” she said. Of course she knew exactly. She weighed a hundred and thirty-seven pounds. He weighed over thirty pounds more than that. “But I know I can pull you up,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Shit.”

“Peter, are you ready or not?”

“Yeah. Go.”

She drew the rope tight, then crouched down, planting her feet firmly on either side of the open door. She felt like a sumo wrestler at the start of a match. But she knew her legs were much stronger than her arms. This was the only way she could do it. She took a deep breath.

“Ready?” she said.

“I guess.”

Sarah began to stand upright, her legs burning with effort. The rope stretched taut, then moved upward—slowly at first, just a few inches. But it was moving.

It was moving.

“Okay, stop. Stop!”

“What?”

“Stop!”

“Okay.” She was in mid-crouch. “But I can’t hold this for long.”

“Don’t hold it at all. Let it out. Slowly. About three feet.”

She realized that she must have already pulled him part of the way out of the cleft. His voice sounded better, much less frightened, though he was coughing almost continuously.

“Peter?”

“Minute. I’m hooking it on my belt.”

“Okay…”

“I can see up now,” he said. “I can see the tread. The tread is about six feet above my head.”

“Okay.”

“But when you pull me up, the rope’s going to rub on the edge of the tread.”

“It’ll be okay,” she said.

“And I’ll be hanging right over the, uh…”

“I won’t let you go, Peter.”

He coughed for a while. She waited. He said, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Then let’s get this over with,” he said, “before I get scared.”

There was only one bad moment. She had pulled him up about four feet, and he came free of the cleft, and she suddenly took the full weight of his body. It shocked her; the rope slid three feet down. He howled.

“Sar-ah!”

She gripped the rope, stopped it. “Sorry.”

“Fuck!”

“Sorry.” She adjusted to the added weight, started pulling again. She was groaning with the effort but it was not long before she saw his hand appear above the tread, and he gripped it, and began to haul himself over. Then two hands, and his head appeared.

That shocked her, too. His face was covered in thick blood, his hair matted red. But he was smiling.

“Keep pulling, sister.”

“I am, Peter. I am.”

Only after he finally had scrambled into the cab did Sarah sink to the floor. Her legs began to shake violently. Her body trembled all over. Evans, lying on his side, coughing and wheezing beside her, hardly noticed. Eventually the trembling passed. She found the first-aid kit and began to clean his face up.

“It’s only a superficial cut,” she said, “but you’ll need stitches.”

“If we ever get out of here…”

“We’ll get out, all right.”

“I’m glad you’re confident.” He looked out the window at the ice above. “You done much ice climbing?”

She shook her head. “But I’ve done plenty of rock climbing. How different can it be?”

“More slippery? And what happens when we get up there?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“We have no idea where to go.”

“We’ll follow the guy’s snowtracks.”

“If they’re still there. If they haven’t blown away. And you know it’s at least seven or eight miles to Weddell.”

“Peter,” she said.

“If a storm comes up, maybe we’re better off down here.”

“I’m not staying here,” she said. “If I’m going to die, I’ll die in daylight.”

The actual climb up the crevasse wall was not so bad, once Sarah got used to the way she had to kick her boots with the crampons, and how hard she had to swing the axe to make it bite into the ice. It took her only seven or eight minutes to cover the distance, and clamber onto the surface.

The surface looked exactly the same as before. The same dim sunlight, the same gray horizon that blended with the ground. The same gray, featureless world.

She helped Evans up. His cut was bleeding again, and his mask was red, frozen stiff against his face.

“Shit it’s cold,” he said. “Which way, do you think?”

Sarah was looking at the sun. It was low on the horizon, but was it sinking, or rising? And which direction did the sun indicate, anyway, when you were at the South Pole? She frowned: She couldn’t work it out, and she didn’t dare make a mistake.

“We’ll follow the tracks,” she said at last. She took off her crampons and started walking.

She had to admit, Peter was right about one thing: It was much colder here on the surface. After half an hour, the wind came up, blowing strongly; they had to lean into it as they trudged forward. Worse, the snow began to blow across the ground beneath their feet. Which meant—

“We’re losing the tracks,” Evans said.

“I know.”

“They’re getting blown away.”

“I know.” Sometimes he was such a baby. What did he expect her to do about the wind?

“What do we do?” he said.

“I don’t know, Peter. I’ve never been lost in Antarctica before.”

“Well, me neither.”

They trudged onward.

“But it was your idea to come up here.”

“Peter. Pull yourself together.”

“Pull myself together? It’s fucking freezing, Sarah. I can’t feel my nose or my ears or my fingers or my toes or—”

“Peter.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Shut up!”

He was silent. Through slots in his facemask, he stared out at her. His eyelashes were white with ice.

“I can’t feel my nose either,” Sarah said. “We have to keep a grip.”

She looked around, turning a full circle, trying to conceal her own growing desperation. The wind was blowing more snow now. It was becoming harder to see. The world was flatter and grayer, with almost no sense of depth. If this weather continued, they would soon not be able to see the ground well enough to avoid the crevasses.

Then they would have to stop where they were.

In the middle of nowhere.

He said, “You’re beautiful when you’re angry, you know that?”

“Peter, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, you are.”

She started walking, looking down at the ground, trying to see the tread marks. “Come on, Peter.” Perhaps the tracks would return soon to the road. If they did, the road would be easier to follow in a storm. And safer for walking.

“I think I’m falling in love, Sarah.”

“Peter…”

“I had to tell you. This may be my last chance.” He started coughing again.

“Save your breath, Peter.”

“Fucking freezing.”

They stumbled on, no longer speaking. The wind howled. Sarah’s parka was pressed flat against her body. It became harder and harder to move forward. But she pressed on. She did not know how much longer she continued in that way before she raised a hand, and stopped. Evans must not have been able to see her, because he walked into her back, grunted, and stopped.

They had to put their heads together and shout to hear each other above the wind.

“We have to stop!” she yelled.

“I know!”

And then, because she didn’t know what else to do, she sat down on the ground and pulled her legs up and lowered her head to her knees, and tried not to cry. The wind grew louder and louder. Now it was shrieking. The air was thick with flying snow.

Evans sat down beside her. “We’re going to fucking die,” he said.