“I was curious about what you said just now,” Marshall said. “Our expedition site being a set.”

“I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. Obviously, to you this is a work environment. It’s just that, on a shoot like this, the clock is everything. We don’t have a lot of time. And besides, I’m sure your group wants us in and out as quickly as possible. That’s my job: to advance the gig.”

“Advance the gig?”

“Scout locations, arrange a schedule. Basically set up a trajectory so that when the producer and talent hit the ground, their path is already prepared.”

Privately, Marshall was surprised by this talk: producer, talent. Like the other scientists, he’d assumed Terra Prime would be sending one person, or two at most: somebody to point the camera, and somebody to stand in front of it now and then. “So you do all the heavy lifting up front, then the big shots come and steal the glory.”

Ekberg laughed: a clear, rich contralto that rang over the permafrost. “I guess that about sums it up.”

They reached the security checkpoint, long since fallen into disuse, and Ekberg stared ahead in unconcealed surprise. “My God. I had no idea how big this place was.”

“What did you expect?” Sully asked. “Igloos and pup tents?”

“Actually, most of the base is underground,” Marshall said as they walked past the perimeter fence and across the apron. “They built it in a natural declivity, brought in prefabbed sections, filled in the excess space with frozen dirt and pumice. The visible structures are for the most part mechanical or technical systems: powerhouse, radar domes, that sort of thing. The architects wanted to minimize its visual footprint. That’s why it was built in the shadow of the only mountain for many miles around.”

“How long since the base was active?”

“A long time,” Marshall replied. “Almost fifty years.”

“My God. So who maintains it? You know, keeps the toilets flushing, that sort of thing?”

“It’s what the government calls a minimal maintenance installation. There’s a tiny detachment of soldiers here to keep things operational, three guys from the Army Corps of Engineers under the command of Gonzalez. That’s Sergeant Gonzalez. They maintain the generators and the electrical grid, cycle the heating systems, change lightbulbs, monitor the level of the water tanks. And at present, babysit us.”

“Fifty years.” Ekberg shook her head. “Guess that’s why they don’t mind renting it out to us.”

Marshall nodded.

“Still, Uncle Sam isn’t exactly a cheap landlord. We’re paying $100,000 more just to house the documentary crew for a week.”

“Cost of living is high up here,” said Sully.

Ekberg looked around again. “The soldiers have to stay here?”

“They get rotated out every six months. At least, the three grunts do. The sergeant, Gonzalez-he seems to like it.”

Ekberg shook her head. “Now there’s a man who clearly values his privacy.”

They stepped past the heavy outer doors, through a staging area, down a long weather chamber-lined on both sides with lockers for parkas and snow gear-and then through another set of doors into the base itself. Although Fear Base hadn’t been active for half a century, the military atmosphere remained strong: American flags, steel walls, utilitarian features. Fading posters on the walls listed standing orders and warned against security breaches. A wide corridor ran left and right from the entrance plaza, quickly fading into obscurity: the immediate area was well lit, but the more distant regions contained just the occasional oasis of light. On the far side of the plaza, a man in military uniform sat behind a glass panel, reading a paperback.

Marshall noticed Ekberg’s nose wrinkling. “Sorry about that,” he said with a laugh. “Took me about a week to get used to the smell, too. Who’d have thought an arctic base would smell like a battleship’s bilge? Come on, let’s get you signed in.”

They walked across the plaza to the glass window. “Tad,” Marshall said by way of greeting.

The man behind the panel nodded back. He was tall and youthful, with a buzz cut of carrot-colored hair. He wore the stripe of a private in the engineers’ corps. “Dr. Marshall.”

“This is Kari Ekberg, here in advance of the rest of the documentary team.” Marshall turned to Ekberg. “Tad Phillips.”

Phillips looked the woman over with ill-concealed interest. “We got the word just this morning. Ms. Ekberg, if you’ll sign in, please?” He passed a clipboard out through a slot at the base of the glass panel.

She signed on the indicated line and passed it back. Phillips noted the time and date, then put the clipboard aside. “You’ll give her the orientation, explain the cleared areas?”

“Sure thing,” Marshall said.

Phillips nodded and-after another glance at Ekberg-returned his gaze to the book he’d been reading. Sully led the way to a nearby stairwell and the group began to descend.

“At least it’s warm in here,” Ekberg said.

“The upper levels, anyway,” Sully replied. “The rest is reduced to maintenance only.”

“What did he mean about cleared areas?” she asked.

“This central, five-level section of the base is where the officers lived and much of the monitoring went on,” Marshall said. “We’ve got full access to that-not that any of us have had the time or inclination to do much exploring. We have limited access to the southern wing, where most of the computers and other equipment was stored and maintained. The enlisted men live there; we have clearance to the upper levels. We’re not authorized to enter the northern wing.”

“What’s in that?”

Marshall shrugged. “No idea.”

They emerged onto another corridor, longer and better lit than the one above. Ancient equipment of all kinds had been shoved up against the walls, as if the place had been abandoned in great haste. There were more lockers here, along with official-looking signboards with arrows, providing directions to various installations: RADAR MAPPING, RASP COMMAND POST, RECORDING/MONITORING. Doors with small metal-grilled windows lined both sides of the corridor. They were marked not with names but with series of letters and numbers. “We’ve set up our temporary labs here on B Level,” Sully said, jerking his thumb toward the doors. “Ahead are the galley, the officers’ mess, and a briefing room we’ve converted into a temporary rec area. Around that bend are the bunk rooms. We’ve set up a spare for your use.”

Ekberg murmured her thanks. “I still don’t understand why anyone would need a base like this at all,” she said. “I mean, way up here, so far north.”

“It was part of the original early warning system,” Marshall said. “Ever hear of the Pinetree Line, or the DEW Line?”

Ekberg shook her head.

“Back in 1949 the Soviets tested a working atomic bomb. It drove us crazy: we’d thought we had at least five more years to prepare. Instead, our eggheads suddenly predicted that in a few years the Russians would have enough bombs to cripple the United States. So there was a huge ramping up of troops, aircraft, weaponry-including a crash program to develop a perimeter defense system. The Pacific and Atlantic seaboards were well protected, and it became clear that the main threat would come in as bombers, over the pole. But radar then was very primitive: it couldn’t detect low-flying aircraft, couldn’t detect things over the horizon.”

“So they needed to bring their eyes as close to the threat as possible.”

“Exactly. The military put their heads together and came up with the most likely routes the Russian bombers would take in the event of an attack. They built early warning stations as far north as they could along each route. This is one of them.” Marshall shook his head. “The ironic thing is that by the time it was completed in the late fifties, it was already obsolete. Missiles were replacing aircraft as delivery systems for bombs. We needed a centralized network to address that kind of threat. So a new system called SAGE was put in place and these stations were mothballed.”