"Nobody knows."
"Then how do they make computer models of climate?" Evans said.
Kenner smiled. "As far as cloud cover is concerned, they guess."
"Theyguess? "
"Well, they don't call it a guess. They call it an estimate, or parameterization, or an approximation. But if you don't understand something, you can't approximate it. You're really just guessing."
Evans felt the beginnings of a headache. He said, "I think it's time for me to get some sleep."
"Good idea," Kenner said, glancing at his watch. "We still have another eight hours before we land."
The flight attendant gave Evans some pajamas. He went into the bathroom to change. When he came out, Kenner was still sitting there, staring out the window at the moonlit clouds. Against his better judgment, Evans said, "By the way. You said earlier that the Vanutu lawsuit won't go to trial."
"That's right."
"Why not? Because of the sea-level data?"
"In part, yes. It's hard to claim global warming is flooding your country if sea levels aren't rising."
"It's hard to believe sea levels aren't rising," Evans said. "Everything you read says that they are. All the television reports..."
Kenner said, "Remember African killer bees? There was talk of them for years. They're here now, and apparently there's no problem. Remember Y2K? Everything you read back then said disaster was imminent. Went on for months. But in the end, it just wasn't true."
Evans thought that Y2K didn't prove anything about sea levels. He felt an urge to argue that point, but found himself suppressing a yawn.
"It's late," Kenner said. "We can talk about all this in the morning."
"You're not going to sleep?"
"Not yet. I have work to do."
Evans went forward to where the others were sleeping. He lay down across the aisle from Sarah, and pulled the covers up to his chin. Now his feet were exposed. He sat up, wrapped the blanket around his toes, and then lay down again. The blanket only came to mid-shoulder. He thought about getting up and asking the flight attendant for another.
And then he slept.
He awoke to harsh, glaring sunlight. He heard the clink of silverware, and smelled coffee. Evans rubbed his eyes, and sat up. In the back of the plane, the others were eating breakfast.
He looked at his watch. He'd slept for more than six hours.
He walked to the back of the plane.
"Better eat," Sarah said, "we land in an hour."
They stepped out onto the runway of Marso del Mar, shivering in the chill wind that whipped in off the ocean. The land around them was low, green, marshy, and cold. In the distance Evans saw the jagged, snow-covered spires of the El Fogara range of southern Chile.
"I thought this was summer," he said.
"It is," Kenner said. "Late spring, anyway."
The airfield consisted of a small wooden terminal, and a row of corrugated steel hangars, like oversize Quonset huts. There were seven or eight other aircraft on the field, all four-engine prop planes. Some had skis that were retracted above the landing wheels.
"Right on time," Kenner said, pointing to the hills beyond the airport. A Land Rover was bouncing toward them. "Let's go."
Inside the little terminal, which was little more than a single large room, its walls covered with faded, stained air charts, the group tried on parkas, boots, and other gear brought by the Land Rover. The parkas were all bright red or orange. "I tried to get everybody's size right," Kenner said. "Make sure you take long johns and microfleece, too."
Evans glanced at Sarah. She was sitting on the floor, pulling on heavy socks and boots. Then she unselfconsciously stripped down to her bra, and pulled a fleece top over her head. Her movements were quick, businesslike. She didn't look at any of the men.
Sanjong was staring at the charts on the wall, and seemed particularly interested in one. Evans went over. "What is it?"
Punta Arenas 1888-2004
"It's the record from the weather station at Punta Arenas, near here. It's the closest city to Antarctica in the world." He tapped the chart and laughed. "There's your global warming."
Evans frowned at the chart.
"Finish up, everybody," Kenner said, glancing at his watch. "Our plane leaves in ten minutes."
Evans said, "Where exactly are we going?"
"To the base nearest Mount Terror. It's called Weddell Station. Run by New Zealanders."
"What's there?"
"Not much, mate," the Land Rover driver said, and he laughed. "But the way the weather's been lately, you'll be lucky if you can get there at all."
TO WEDDELL STATION
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 6
8:04 A. M.