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Hayes. “What do you mean?”
    “A group of about twenty men. They were flying a Norwegian flag, but none of them – at least, not the three I spoke to – spoke the language. They were military. I mean, they had uniforms. And they were drilling.”
    “They shot you?” asked the general.
    Henry nodded. Then he related his encounter in detail, offering his suspicion that they’d shot him because he’d realized they weren’t Norwegians. As he spoke, the general’s assistant, Hazelton, took notes on a clipboard.
    “Excuse me, General,” said Hazelton. “May I ask a question?” When Hayes nodded, the lieutenant continued, “What exactly did you say to these. . . Norwegians?”
    Henry related his conversation, telling them about his grandparents’ little joke. As he spoke, Hazelton carried on scribbling on the clipboard.
    “Then they just shot you?” asked the SEAL, Grimes, when Henry had concluded his story.
    “Maybe they thought I’d steal their radio?” Henry said with a pained smile. “I can’t figure it out.”
    He told them how the bullet had been stopped by the radio in his pocket, but the man didn’t seem impressed.
    “We are looking at the radio,” said Hayes. “Good thing you held on to it. Evidence.”
    After a few more questions, they had Henry show them on a map the approximate position of the attack; then they thanked him and left.
    Soon the nurse returned, carrying a tray. Henry noticed she wasn’t smiling any longer.
    “Why so gloomy?”
    She seemed surprised by the question. She brushed a lock of brown hair away from her eye and looked at Henry.
    “Shit. . . am I going to die?” asked Henry in a panicked voice.
    She put down the tray and picked up a syringe.
    “Time for a little antibiotic, Mr Gibbs. And, no, you’re not going to die.”
    “Then what are you talking about? What haven’t I heard? Tell me.”
    “I was talking about the terrorists,” she said.
    “The ones who shot me? Are you saying I was shot by terrorists?”
    The nurse shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I’m talking about the broadcast. . . you know, the one from the UN.”
    Henry struggled to make sense of their conversation. Gradually he realized something big was happening. World News Tonight stuff.
    He looked at her gravely. “I just got here off the ice. I was shot by strangers. I don’t have a single clue what’s going on.”
    She did a double-take for a moment, then blinked.
    “Oh, heck, I’m sorry.” A coy smile. “I thought everybody knew about the terrorists who planted the bombs in the ice. It’s been on the news since yesterday.”
    He stared at her blankly. “Bombs in the ice ?” His mind searched through the details of his encounter with the false Norwegians. “Planted the bombs in what ice?”
    “If it’s the Ross Shelf, we may have to pack out of here soon,” she said. “That’s why the Navy’s here.” She looked around the room. “Gee,” she added, “I hope it was okay to tell you that.”
    He was shaken by the news, but not enough to forget his humour. “If the whole world knows it,” he said, laughing, “then one more person won’t matter much. Besides, the brass learn about their universe on a need- to-know basis.”
    The nurse gave him a wan smile and left the room.
    Alone, he examined his surroundings. The place was a wing of the main hospital, and typical of all McMurdo’s buildings: well insulated simple A-frame structures. The hospital’s decor, as at many other polar bases, was strewn with pictures of the rest of the world and incongruous motifs, with palm trees and flaminggoes a dominant favourite. This room had gotten the palm trees: light green trees over a darker green background. He noticed there was a phone on the table at his bedside and, more importantly, a TV facing him. A remote lay next to his pitcher of iced water.
    Grabbing the remote, he switched on the television. Vanna was turning Ms on the big