Wolff cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. “Actually, Dr. Marshall, you’re right. It is simple: we can do whatever we want.”

Marshall turned toward Wolff, feeling his jaw set in a hard line. “What are you talking about?”

“If we want to cut the cat out of the ice, we can. If we want to chop it up and barbecue it, we can do that, too.” The channel rep reached inside his parka and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he held out to Marshall.

Marshall didn’t take them. “What’s this?” he asked.

“This is the contract that your Dr. Sully, and the head of NMU’s research department, signed with Terra Prime.”

When Marshall didn’t reply, Wolff went on. “In exchange for underwriting your six-week expedition, Terra Prime-and by extension its corporate parent, Blackpool Entertainment Group-has exclusive and unlimited access not only to your site but to any and all discoveries you make, at our sole discretion.”

Reluctantly, Marshall took the document.

“Clause six,” Wolff said. “The operative word is ‘unlimited.’”

Briefly, Marshall scanned the contract. It was as Wolff said: in effect, Terra Prime controlled any physical or intellectual property their expedition produced. He hadn’t realized Terra Prime was a subsidiary of Blackpool, and he didn’t like it: Blackpool was infamous for its sensationalist, exploitative journalism. Clearly, Wolff anticipated this moment would come: that’s why he was carrying the contract around in the first place. Marshall looked more closely at the man. Even in a parka, Wolff was thin, almost cadaverous, with close-cropped brown hair and an expressionless face. He returned the look, pale eyes betraying nothing.

Marshall turned to Sully. “You signed this?”

Sully shrugged. “It was either that or no expedition. How could we know this was going to happen?”

Marshall didn’t answer. Suddenly, he felt more tired than ever. Without another word, he refolded the contract and passed it back to Wolff.

A quarter of an hour later, a large group set off up the glacial valley toward the ice cave. In addition to the scientists, Conti, and his small retinue of assistants, there was Ekberg, the two photographers, and the soundman. A dozen or so tough-looking roustabouts in leather jackets followed behind, both on foot and in the Sno-Cat, whose cargo bed had been loaded to overflowing with wooden pallets. These men were not officially part of the documentary team; they were locals, flown up from Anchorage for a few days to do the heavy work. Ekberg had already explained that the real rush was to get the principal photography, the live stuff, done quickly-with the producer now on scene and the star on the way, money was being burned through quickly, and the sets and props needed to be built as speedily as possible.

Normally, the hike to the face of Fear glacier took twenty minutes, but today it took several times as long: Conti was forever stopping so the photographers could get shots of the mountain, the valley below, the party itself. Once he’d stopped everything for ten minutes just to gaze pensively up at the glacier. Most strangely, he later got a number of shots of Ekberg-from every angle except face-forward.

“What are those for?” Marshall asked her after the fifth such shot.

Ekberg tugged off her hood. “I’m standing in for Ashleigh.”

Marshall nodded his understanding. Ashleigh Davis, the host, wasn’t due for another two days-but that wasn’t stopping Conti from filming her anyway. “I suppose it’s as you said. On a shoot like this, the clock is everything.”

“That’s right.” She glanced over at him. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened back there. I wish I could have warned you, but I was given strict orders. It had to come from Wolff.”

“So he’s top man. And here I’d figured it was Conti.”

“Emilio is in charge of everything creative: the shots, the lighting, the direction, the final cut. But the network is putting up the money. So the network has the last say. And up here at the top of the world, Wolff is the network.”

Marshall glanced over his shoulder, down the mountain. Wolff had not come along, but he could still be seen far below: a tiny figure, gaunt and wraithlike, standing motionless outside the perimeter fence, watching them.

Marshall turned back with a sigh. “Is this normal? All this stopping, looking around, filming again and again?”

“Not really, no. Conti’s burning three times the normal amount of film.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he wants this to be his Mona Lisa. His masterwork. He’s risked a lot to put this together.”

“And why is the Great Auteur trudging up the mountain with the rest of the unwashed? I figured he’d be riding in the Sno-Cat.”

“He wants to be photographed ‘on the ground,’ as we say. It looks better for the ‘making-of’ video that will ultimately accompany the DVD.”

Marshall shook his head in quiet disbelief at the circus this had become.

They resumed the climb, and almost on cue Conti angled toward them. “Is there anything I should know?” he asked Marshall in his clipped Italian accent.

“About what?”

The producer swept his hand in a wide arc. “Anything. The place, the weather, the local fauna-any color we can add to the project.”

“There’s a great deal you should know. It’s a fascinating geological region.”

The producer nodded a little dubiously. “I’ll schedule an interview when we get back.”

Sully, who had heard this exchange, hurried over. “I’d be happy-in my role as team leader-to give you any assistance you need.”

Conti nodded again, absently, his eyes back on the glacier.

Marshall wondered if he should tell the producer about the nearby inhabitants. They were probably precisely the kind of “color” Conti was looking for. Just as quickly, he decided against it. The last thing the Tunits wanted-or deserved-was a loud, ignorant film crew descending on their village. He didn’t need to guess how they’d react if they could see how Mount Fear had been transformed over the last few days.

He glanced surreptitiously at Conti. Marshall was having a difficult time drawing a bead on the director. For all his posturing as a fey artiste, the man also exhibited a hard, uncompromising façade. It was a most unlikely combination, half Truman Capote, half David Lean. It kept one off-balance.

The ice cave lay ahead now, its dark maw obscured by the pieces of heavy equipment: a flatbed crane on balloon tires and another vehicle that Marshall could not identify. They were painted bright yellow, garish against the snowpack and the pale blue of the glacier. While the cameramen swapped out lenses and the sound engineer readied his belt mixer, the battalion of men in leather began spreading out around the machines. Two heaved themselves up into the cabs, while others began pulling the wooden pallets from the Sno-Cat and stowing their contents onto the rear of the mobile crane. Glancing more closely, Marshall saw that they were duffels loaded with heavy steel spacers, with hydraulics for adjusting their height.

Barbour watched the men work with narrowed eyes. She held a palmtop computer in one heavily gloved hand and a digital recorder in the other. Even more than Marshall, she was suspicious of the documentary crew. “I can guess what the bloody great flatbed is for,” she murmured. “But what’s the other thing?”

Marshall peered at the second vehicle. It bristled with equipment that looked vaguely medieval. “No idea.”

“Make a note,” Conti was saying to Ekberg. “I want a four-color palette: the white of the snow, the cerulean of the sky, the azure of the glacier, the black of the cave. It should be a nocturne in blue. We’ll need to use that special process when we get it to the lab.” He glanced at the cameramen. “Ready?”