"According to our resident meteorologist, it should blow over in a few hours."

"The sleds are loaded with the artifacts," said Pitt.

"Do you require help?"

"There must be close to eight hundred pounds per sled. Any assistance to pull them back to the Polar Storm will be gratefully accepted."

"Stand by until the weather clears," Gillespie said. "I'll personally lead the relief party."

"Are you sure you want to make the trip?"

"And miss walking the deck of an eighteenth-century ship? Not for all the cognac in France."

"I'll introduce you to the captain."

"You've seen the captain?" Gillespie asked curiously.

"Not yet, but if Roxanna Mender didn't exaggerate, he should be fresh as a Popsicle."

Captain Leigh Hunt still sat at the desk where he had died in 1779. Nothing had changed except for the small indentation in the ice where the ship's log had once lain on the desktop. Solemnly, they studied the child in the crib and Mrs. Hunt, two centuries of ice covering her saddened and delicate features. The dog was only a frozen mound of white.

They walked through the cabins, illuminating the long-dead passengers with their halogen lights. The shrouds of ice glittered brightly, scarcely revealing the bodies beneath. Pitt tried to visualize their final moments, but the tragedy seemed so poignant it just didn't bear thinking about. Seeing those waxen effigies in the shadowy gloom, rigid under their ice coating, made it hard to imagine them as living, breathing humans who went about their everyday lives before dying in a remote and awful part of the world. The expressions on some of the faces, distorted by the ice, were ghastly beyond description. What were their last thoughts alone, without hope of rescue?

"This is a nightmare," murmured Northrop. "But a glorious nightmare."

Pitt looked at him questioningly. "Glorious?"

"The wonder of it all. Human bodies perfectly preserved, frozen in time. Think what this means to the science of cryogenics. Think of the potential for bringing them all back to life."

The thought struck Pitt like a blow to the head. Could science make it possible someday to present the cold, dead passengers and crew of the Madras with a rebirth? "Think of the amazing amount of history that would be rewritten after talking to someone brought back to life after two hundred years."

Northrop threw up his hands. "Why dream? It won't happen in our lifetime."

"Probably not," said Pitt, contemplating the possibility, "but I wish I could be around to witness the reaction of these poor souls when they saw what's happened to their world since 1779."

The storm clouds passed over and the wind died after another four hours. Cox stood outside the cave and waved the yellow tarpaulin like a flag that had covered the ice tools. A group of figures spotted the signal and began winding their way through the rugged contours of the ice toward the cave. Pitt counted ten turquoise antlike creatures approaching across the dead white floe. As they came closer, Pitt could see Gillespie was leading. He also recognized the small figure behind him as the journalist, Evie Tan.

Thirty minutes later, Gillespie walked up to Pitt and smiled. "Nice day for a walk in the park," he said cheerfully.

"Welcome to the Antarctic museum of marine antiquities," Pitt said, showing the captain inside and pointing up at the hull. "Watch your step climbing the ladder Ira so ably hacked in the ice."

While Pitt and Gillespie made a tour of the Madras with Evie, who shot ten rolls of film, recording every inch of the old ship's interior and its dead, Cox and Northrop helped the Polar Storm's crew pull the sleds and their ancient cargo back to the icebreaker.

Pitt was amused as he watched Evie unzip her big parka, pull up the heavy wool sweater underneath, and tape rolls of film to her long john underwear. She looked at him and smiled. "Saves the film from the extreme cold."

Jake Bushey, the Polar Storm's first officer, hailed Gillespie over his portable radio. The captain listened for a moment and shoved the radio back into his pocket. Pitt could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn't in a good mood. "We must get back to the ship."

"Another storm coming in?" asked Evie.

He gave a curt shake of the head. "The U-boat," he said grimly. "She's surfaced through the ice less than a mile from the Polar Storm."

As they neared the ship and looked beyond her across the ice, they could clearly see the black whale-shaped outline of the submarine against the white floe. Closer yet and they distinguished figures standing on the conning tower, as others climbed from inside the hull and clustered around the deck gun. The U-boat had popped through the ice only a quarter of a mile from the Polar Storm.

Gillespie called his first officer over his portable radio. "Bushey!"

"Standing by, sir."

"Close the watertight doors and order all crew and scientists to don their life vests."

"Yes, sir," replied Bushey. "Activating watertight doors."

"That ghost ship is like a plague," muttered Gillespie. "Its bad luck is contagious."

"Be thankful for small favors," said Pitt. "There is no way a sub can fire a torpedo through the ice."

"True, but she still has a deck gun."

The sound of the alarms warning the people on board of the closing of the bulkhead doors blared through the cold air and across the ice as Pitt and the others rushed toward the ship. The snow had been packed down by the sleds and their heavy cargo, making a trail that was easy for them to follow. Several of the crew were standing in the snow around the gangway, motioning for them to hurry.

The captain called over the radio again. "Bushey. Has the U-boat attempted contact?"

"Nothing, sir. Shall I try and raise them?"

Gillespie thought a moment. "No, not yet, but keep a sharp eye for any suspicious movement."

"Did you make contact with the boat's commander during the voyage from the Peninsula?" asked Pitt.

"I made two attempts, but my requests for identification went unanswered."

Gillespie kept his eyes aimed at the sub. "What did the admiral say when you informed him?"

"All he said was, `I'll take care of it' "

"Whatever the admiral promises, you can take to the bank." Pitt paused reflectively. "Tell Jake to send a message to the sub, warning its commander that your research ship has dropped seismic explosive underwater devices under the ice in the exact position where he's surfaced."

"What do you expect to gain with that lie?"

"We've got to stall. Whatever scheme Sandecker is cooking up, he'll need time to assemble."

"They're probably listening in on everything we say over the radio."

"I'm counting on it," said Pitt, smiling.

"If they operate like they did in World War Two against isolated transport ships, they're jamming our satellite transmissions."

"I think we can count on that, too."

They still had another half mile to go to reach the ship. Gillespie pressed the transmit switch on his radio. "Bushey, listen to me carefully" He then told his first officer what to say and do, certain the sub was listening to their transmission.

Bushey did not question his senior officer's orders, nor did he show the slightest hesitation. "I understand, Captain. I will contact the vessel immediately and warn them."