Before she, too, was dragged from the bunk and wrapped in a chain on the rolling deck.
A warm compress was placed over her eyes, and as she lay there, she wondered under what circumstances she might emerge—if she emerged at all—from this untried experiment.
Drawing Darryl toward the door, Michael whispered, “What’s happening to her? Is there something we should do?”
“I’m not sure there’s anything we can do at this point,” Darryl replied. “The injection should take some time—a half hour, maybe an hour?—before fully circulating in her bloodstream and taking effect. We’ll know better then.”
Charlotte stepped to the bedside and took her pulse. “It’s a bit fast,” she reported, “but strong.” Then she slipped a blood-pressure cuff around Eleanor’s upper arm, inflated it, and watched as the LED numbers flashed. Eventually, they settled at 185 over 120, which even Michael knew was too high.
“We’ll have to bring that down, if it doesn’t come down on its own,” she said, putting the stethoscope to Eleanor’s chest and checking her heartbeat. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Light-headed,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte nodded, pursing her lips. “Just try to relax,” she said, removing the blood-pressure cuff. “And rest.”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice already fading, “Dr. Barnes.”
“Call me Charlotte. I think we’re on a first-name basis by now, honey.” Slipping a call button under her hand, she said, “If you need me, just press this. I’ll be right next door.”
Charlotte took the tray from the bed and herded them all from the room. Michael took one look back and saw Eleanor, the white compress draped across her eyes, her long brown hair brushing the rim of the ivory brooch.
“Come on,” Charlotte murmured. “I’m sure she’ll be all right.”
But Michael detected a certain lack of conviction.
“Maybe I should keep watch,” he suggested.
“You’ve got packing to do. Get to it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
December 26, 12:45 p.m.
FOR MICHAEL, packing was easy. All his clothes just went straight from the dresser drawer into the duffel bag, where they were mashed down as compactly as possible. It was the camera gear that took time. He had learned, from bitter experience, that unless every lens and filter and strap went back in its proper case, he might not be able to lay his hand on it when the perfect photo op presented itself. Writing was about deliberation; photography was about serendipity.
All he left out was one tripod and his trusty old Canon S80. He didn’t want to leave the base without a few last shots of Ollie, enjoying whatever snack he could bring him from the holiday buffet. And the weather, for a change, was perfectly still—sunny and bright. The calm, Michael knew, before the storm due the next afternoon.
Clearing the top of the dresser, he picked up Danzig’s walrus-tooth necklace and slipped it around his own neck. He didn’t plan to take it off again until he could hand it to Erik’s widow in person.
In Miami.
Where he’d be, with a whole lot of luck, in a couple of days.
He found himself standing stock-still by his bunk, simply contemplating the enormity of everything that lay before him. Everything that had to be done. From inoculating Sinclair, to convincing them both that this was their only way out of Antarctica—sealed in bags, transported on an airplane—a flying machine yet!—over thousands of miles in a matter of hours. And where to? A country where neither of them had ever set foot, in a century they barely knew. There were so many parts of the plan that they would find impossible to believe, he didn’t even know where to start. And so many parts that he himself could barely accept—was he truly going to chaperone the two into the modern-day world?—that a kind of mental paralysis threatened to descend. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, he reminded himself. Confronted by so many variables, all he could do was attend to the small things, one at a time.
When the door opened and Darryl came in, he was tucking a camera case into the bulging duffel.
“Any word about Eleanor?” Darryl asked, plunking himself down in the desk chair.
“Not since we left.”
Darryl was eating a mammoth éclair. “You should check out the commons. Lots of leftover Christmas pastry. The hot punch is still going, too.”
“Yeah, maybe I will, before we head over to the meat locker.”
Darryl nodded, licking the yellow cream off his fingertips. “You told Eleanor yet about the rest of the plan?”
Michael shook his head. “I’m still looking for a better way to say body bag.”
“If you think that’s going to be hard, try airplane.”
“I’m way ahead of you there.”