The plane was already there. We loaded the two men on-board — Anderson in the front, Hagger in the hold — and waved it off. Soon, it was just a speck in the clouds.

‘Wait a minute.’ Franklin had been standing, pacing the room while Kennedy talked. ‘You’re telling me that Anderson was shipped home from Zodiac?’

‘You sound surprised, Captain. Find the body, did you?’

‘We …’ Franklin gathered his thoughts. ‘No. Not yet. But we had, uh, indications he was still on Utgard.’

Behind the bandages, Kennedy’s mouth tightened. ‘Did you, now? I can jump to the end of my story, if you like.’

Franklin checked his pager. Still nothing on Eastman. Under his feet, he could feel the familiar rise and fall as the Terra Nova’s bow rode up on the ice, then crushed down through it. They were making good headway.

‘You go on.’

Quam met me when I got back to the Platform. ‘Is he away safely?’

I tugged off my mittens and fiddled with my boots. ‘Away — yes. Safe …’ I shrugged. ‘If anything happens to him, it’s on your conscience.’

‘It’s for the best. He can get the care he needs, and we can get on with the job.’ He touched me awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘You know I’m right, Sean.’

I excused myself. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I didn’t enjoy his company. He knew his status, and wanted you to know it too. I didn’t mind that so much — a base commander should keep his distance, or he’s courting trouble — but he made an exception for me. Treated me like some kind of confidant, as though we shared something we didn’t. To tell the truth, it made me slightly sick.

I’d just got back into the medical room and was starting to clear up when Greta came in.

‘Anderson had a kid,’ she said. ‘Has anyone told him?’

‘I wouldn’t know …’

‘Anderson Skyped him from the radio room. Guest account. You can log in and get the details.’

‘Go for it,’ I told her.

She didn’t move. ‘If his dad’s in a coma, he should hear it from a doctor.’

‘Anderson will be in England in twenty-four hours. No point worrying the boy.’

‘Maybe he should be worried.’

Our eyes met; I understood what she was getting at. She wanted him prepared in case the worst happened.

‘He’ll be fine,’ I insisted.

‘Are you sure?’

I headed to the radio room and logged in to the computer, opened Skype and found the last conversation. I clicked the button and waited, hoping he wouldn’t answer.

The screen came alive. A boy, probably about eight years old, with an eager smile that flicked off when he saw my face.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Dr Kennedy.’ I cleared my throat. For all the courses they give you on your bedside manner, nobody ever covers how to break bad news over the Internet to a boy you’ve never met. ‘I’m the doctor at Zodiac Station, where your daddy’s been working.’

He stared at me.

‘I’m just calling to let you know there’s been a little accident. Your daddy fell and banged his head. He’s coming home. He’s fine.’

He stared at me.

‘He’s going to be fine,’ I said. Repeating myself. ‘He’s just hurt himself a little bit.’

He glanced over his shoulder. In the background, I heard a woman’s voice calling, ‘Is that Daddy?’

The boy shook his head. A moment later, a harassed-looking woman appeared over his shoulder, peering closely at the camera. ‘Who is this?’

‘My name’s Sean Kennedy. I’m the doctor—’

Over my head, one of the radios crackled.

‘Why are you talking to my nephew?’

‘Zodiac Station, this is Tango Oscar two niner.’

I looked up, trying to work out where the interruption was coming from.

‘Daddy’s hurt,’ the boy told the woman.

‘Is Tom all right?’ The woman leaned in so close her face filled the screen. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Zodiac Station, please come in.’ Even squawking through the radio, I could hear panic in the voice. ‘We have an emergency situation.’

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

Greta pushed in to the tiny room. She must have been listening outside. She grabbed a microphone.

‘What’s your status, Tango Oscar two niner?’

‘Zodiac Station, we have a critical equipment malfunction.’

‘We’ll call you back,’ I told the woman.

‘Can you make it to Longyearbyen?’ Greta asked.

‘Negative, Zodiac. Longyearbyen is out of range. We’re returning to Utgard. Please stand by for emergency landing.’

‘Is Daddy OK?’ said a forlorn voice from the computer.

We all gathered at the airstrip. Even Danny came, squeezed into a parka he’d borrowed from Fridge. The only one that fit. Greta ransacked the base for every fire extinguisher she could find and loaded them in the back of the Sno-Cat.

Eastman manned the radio, though there wasn’t much chat — just occasional terse position updates. I guessed the pilot had better things to worry about. Across the runway, Fridge climbed a ladder and smashed ice off the windsock. The moment he freed it, it started snapping and jerking like an angry dog.

‘Bad crosswind,’ said Greta, as you might talk about the weather with the postman.

Behind the runway, you could see plumes of snow lifting off the mountains. The wind cut through us, freezing any skin it touched. Quam’s right: everyone loves the drama of a rescue, and the biggest danger is often to the rescuers. I made them all get back in the Sno-Cat — everyone except Greta and Quam — until the plane was on approach. I pulled the hood of my parka over my hat, and Velcroed the flaps over my jaw. The world shrank, blurred at the edges by the fur trim on the hood whipping in the wind.

Bundled up like that, I didn’t hear the plane. Greta did. She tugged my arm; a moment later, Eastman waved from the Sno-Cat’s cabin. I scanned the southern sky with my binoculars. The clouds hid the plane and the wind made my eyes tear: by the time I found it, it was nearly on top of us.

Something was badly wrong. The plane bounced around the sky like a kite. One propeller wasn’t turning at all. I kept waiting for it to stabilise, to flatten out into its approach. If anything, it got worse. It looked as though the pilot had no control at all.

The others got out of the Sno-Cat and spread out along the runway clutching fire extinguishers. Fridge sat on a snowmobile, engine running.

It came over the shore — too fast, it seemed to me. The wind whistled off the glacier — heavy, katabatic wind, the weight of cold air pushing down from the high ground. A gust hit the plane. It jerked back then dropped forward.

It was too close to the ground. The front ski tip hit the snow, tore off and got left behind. The plane bellyflopped on to the runway and skidded across, white clouds billowing behind. Could have been smoke or snow. Greta jumped on the back of the snowmobile; Fridge gunned the engine and raced after it. The rest of us followed, struggling with the heavy fire extinguishers. I thought I heard Quam shouting at us to stay back, that it was too dangerous, but no one paid any attention.

It takes a lot to stop a plane sliding over what’s effectively an ice rink. It reached the end of the groomed ski way, past the marker flags, and kept going. Snow mounded up around the nose; suddenly, the plane slewed around ninety degrees. The wings shook so hard I thought they’d snap off. The propeller churned snow into a blizzard.

The Twin Otter shuddered to a halt. One propeller spun in the wind, the other engine poured out smoke. Fridge jumped off the snowmobile and started dousing the engine. Greta ran to the fuselage door and tore it open.

The rest of us had finally caught up. We let rip with our fire extinguishers until the plane was so doused with foam it looked as if we’d buried it in a snowdrift. In retrospect, it’s a shame we were so enthusiastic.