‘Dr Ashcliffe studies polar bears,’ said Kennedy.

I smiled. ‘I’ve just learned how to shoot them.’

It was supposed to be a joke. Ashcliffe recoiled as if I’d insulted his mother; his knee banged the table, jangling the cutlery.

Don’t make jokes about shooting other people’s research interests, I noted.

‘And not forgetting our dear leader,’ said the American who earlier had leapt to Annabel’s defence. He made a mock bow in Quam’s direction. ‘You’re a biologist too, aren’t you, Francis?’

‘That’s right,’ said Quam.

I watched the others turn on him. There was a subtext here I didn’t understand, but I could feel the hostility. It was like being back at school, the dread that you’d be noticed.

‘Why so coy, Francis? Tell him what you specialise in.’

Quam shook his head, like a man with his neck in a noose.

‘Dr Quam is the world expert on the breeding habits of penguins,’ the American announced. ‘Adélies, isn’t it, Francis?’

Unkind laughter rippled around the table. I thought it had to be a wind-up — but Quam flushed crimson and didn’t deny it.

‘Our new masters at the South Polar Agency thought we needed Francis to take us in hand,’ said Kennedy.

‘I wondered about the sign outside,’ I said.

‘Bonfire of the quangos. New government thought it was an unbearable extravagance having one agency for the North Pole and one for the South, so the decree went out from Caesar Augustus that henceforth and forevermore Utgard is part of Antarctica. Isn’t that right, Francis?’

Quam glowered.

‘There won’t be any Arctic left at all if they don’t change their energy policies.’ That was Torell.

‘Fridge’s upset they haven’t turned Utgard into a wind farm yet,’ said the American. ‘Or was it an organic biomass generator you wanted?’

‘I’m more worried about the methane emissions from the poo barrel at Gemini,’ said Ashcliffe, the polar-bear man.

‘Hey Fridge, how many CFCs do you give off?’

Someone bumped my chair from behind. The students had finished and were taking their plates back to the galley.

‘Movie night,’ said Quam.

We cleared the table. The others settled down to watch the film — that night it was Alien — but I went to the radio room to Skype with Luke. I missed him badly; I wanted to be home. It wasn’t the solitude — I could have handled that perfectly well, I think. It was the people there who were making me lonely.

It wasn’t a great connection. The picture froze; the sound stuttered. Luke was like that, too: eager questions one moment, monosyllables the next. I asked about school, about his friends, about my sister. I tried to describe the beauty of Utgard, but he didn’t look interested.

‘Did you deliver my letter?’ he asked.

‘I will do,’ I promised. I wanted to reach through the screen and hug him tight, like the days he was off school sick and we’d curl up on the sofa watching TV. But of course I couldn’t.

We disconnected. I was still staring at the blank screen when Greta popped her head around the door.

‘Did Hagger check in?’

I stared at the racks of equipment in front of me. They had every communications device known to man, it looked like, but nothing that meant anything to me.

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

She glanced at a couple of the displays, then picked up a handset and dialled a number. I heard the burr of a ringing tone down the line.

I pointed to the handset. It looked like the sort of mobile phone people carried in the mid-90s, complete with rubber aerial and real buttons. ‘I thought there was no reception here.’

‘Iridium,’ she said. ‘Satellite phone. He’s not answering.’ She turned it off and threw it down on the desk. I followed her back to the mess.

‘Hagger didn’t check in,’ she announced.

‘It’ll unravel,’ Quam said, without looking up. ‘It always does.’

‘He’s not answering his phone.’

‘Probably forgot to charge the battery.’

‘He’s missed the check-in.’

‘It’s not twenty-four hours yet.’

‘He must’ve dropped the phone down a moulin,’ said Fridge. ‘Or fallen asleep in his tent.’

Greta turned for the door. ‘I’m going to find him,’ she announced.

That got Quam’s attention. ‘There’s a protocol,’ he said firmly. ‘If Hagger misses his next scheduled check-in, we’ll initiate the search-and-rescue plan.’

‘If he’s in trouble, another twelve hours could kill him.’

He jabbed a finger at her. ‘Do you know what the biggest danger is in a situation like this? People losing their heads, trying to play the hero and getting into far worse trouble than we’ve got already. It’ll unravel.’

Her face blazed. ‘Fuck you, Francis. There’s worse things than penguins out there. Who’s coming with me?’

She looked around the room. Standing behind her, I could see all their faces: Quam, furious; Jensen, the pilot, bored; Annabel, indifferent. Most of the others just seemed embarrassed — or kept watching the film. On the TV, John Hurt didn’t look at all well.

‘I forbid it,’ Quam said.

I’d only been there a few hours, and I was already desperate to leave.

‘I’ll come,’ I said.

A rap on the door. A sailor entered and handed Franklin a sheet of paper.

‘Just came through from Washington, sir. Confidential.’

Franklin read it. Anderson sat up in bed, cradling the mug in his fingers.

‘Has the helicopter reached Zodiac yet?’ he asked.

Franklin shook his head. ‘What do you know about Bob Eastman?’

‘Eastman?’ Anderson swirled the dregs of tea in his mug. ‘He was at Zodiac. American, astrophysicist. He worked on gamma radiation, or something. Has he made contact?’

‘Why didn’t you mention him?’

Anderson looked confused. ‘I did. At dinner, he was the one needling Quam and Fridge. I didn’t know his name then.’

‘Someone knows his name. And they want to know where the hell he’s got to.’ Franklin folded the paper. ‘What else?’

‘He was good at crosswords. He had a nice smile. He ate Cap’n Crunch for breakfast, which he smuggled up inside his telescopes.’ Anderson shrugged. ‘There were some rumours, but that was just bullshit. At Zodiac, people started rumours just to make life interesting.’

‘What rumours?’

Anderson put down his cup and slid back under the sheets. ‘Can I just tell the story how it happened?’

Franklin checked his watch. Washington could wait. ‘Be my guest.’

In the Arctic, you never just go somewhere. By the time we’d suited up, fuelled the snowmobiles, loaded the rifles, gathered all the equipment, a full hour had passed. We even signed the exit book. The whole time, I expected Quam to come down from the Platform, threatening us with the sack or waving a gun. But the door stayed shut. Nobody wants to miss movie night.

I waited while Greta hitched low metal sledges behind our snowmobiles. Hers, she loaded with enough equipment to reach the North Pole: spare fuel, a pair of skis, a tent and three steel boxes stencilled SURVIVAL. Mine, she left empty.

‘In case we have to bring anything back,’ she said, ambiguously.

It was my first time driving a snowmobile, but that didn’t count for much. The moment we passed the flag line, Greta almost disappeared over the horizon. I squeezed the accelerator until my thumb went numb. The wind blasted my visor; grains of ice rattled against it like rock salt. The sledge behind me slid around, tugging me off course. And I still could hardly keep up.

We crossed the fjord and drove up on to the ice cap. It was a magical landscape, but I didn’t see much of it. I had my head down, never looking more than a few metres in front, trying to spot Greta’s track and any ruts in the snow. My hands ached; I kept waiting for a rest. Each time she slowed down, my hopes lifted. But each time, it was only to navigate a bump or a slope, and then I had to gun the throttle to close the gap again.