The Nature of Ice Read Online Free PDF Page B

The frozen sea. The frozen sea. When we said goodbye —he catches a sudden movement over the top of the blade and jams on the floor brake. He yanks the steering control to avoid the figure crouching directly in his path. The right track locks and the D8 slides like a chord on The Whalers’ guitar. Steel grousers warble over a slick of ice. The woman before him grabs at her equipment, tumbling over herself in an attempt to leap clear. The Whalers strums. Chad yells. The woman skates on one knee, legs tangled with those of her tripod. How the twenty-tonner doesn’t collect her he’ll never know, but the D8 completes one lithe and graceful loop before easing to a stop.
    â€˜Are you hurt?’ he shouts, jumping down from the cab.
    The woman scrambles to her feet, her clothing caked in snow. ‘I’m okay. Are you alright?’
    He picks up her camera from the snow. The housing of the lens comes apart in his hands. ‘That ain’t good.’
    â€˜An understatement,’ she says wryly, though the words catch in her throat and when she collects the pieces from him Chad sees her hands are trembling.
    He’s about to offer to take the lens back to the station, to see what can be done, but is seized by a sudden urge to shake her. ‘What the hell were you doing there? I nearly wiped you out.’ When she takes a step back, he realises he’s shouting.
    â€˜I’m very sorry,’ she says. ‘I was trying to get a close-up of the blade. I misjudged the distance,’ she adds, sheepishly.
    â€˜Misjudged the distance! Do you make a practice of springing out in front of moving vehicles?’
    The wind carries her answer away, leaving only the residue of an accent. The squall blows back her hair to uncover a birthmark stamped upon her cheek and throat. The other side of her face is as white as her tangle of blonde hair. He finds himself mesmerised. She retrieves her bags and shakes snow from her fallen hat.
    â€˜How long have you been out here?’ he asks.
    â€˜Not long.’
    â€˜Apart from it being a no-no,’ Chad speaks evenly, ‘it’s not a smart idea to be out on the sea ice alone, particularly in weather like this.’
    She slides on her hat and rearranges her hair around her face. ‘Please. You won’t say anything, will you?’
    He may be many things, but a dobber he’s not. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you back to the station.’
    They trudge across the ice, her body leaning into the squall at the same angle as his own. Chad climbs onto the track of the bulldozer and holds the door open against a gust that given half a chance would tear it from its hinges. She clambers up beside him but halts at the sight of the single-person cab.
    â€˜I get a bit claustrophobic. Do you mind if I walk?’
    â€˜I can’t leave you out here on your own. Please get in, before we both freeze.’ He slides her survival pack onto the floor beside the single seat. ‘Sit up on the ledge and nurse your gear. There’s enough room.’
    Chad is grateful for the engine noise that drowns out any need for talk. What other joker hits his forties still burdened with the shyness of his teenage years? She sits at his right, squeezed between his bulk and the door, her legs straddling the steering clutch. Each time she attempts to sit upright her head grazes the roof. She hunches, one arm hugging her tripod, the other clasped around the camera bag as if it, too, were under siege. Her body doesn’t stop shivering—from cold or shock or discomfort at the confinement, he can’t tell. She seems clueless about what the place can dish out. He gives the woman a sideways glare, but if she registers his disdain she does a fine job of ignoring it. She scowls through the window at the pail of sky. Her birthmark radiates across her white cheek as fierce as a burn. Stay on in Antarctica to escape the summer airheads at