Chrysalis

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Randall Pike crouched in his tent, disassembling his surveying gear — transit theodolite and retroreflector — and thrusting the delicate equipment into foam-fitted cases. He’d spent almost every waking minute of the last two weeks with them, knew every plummet and reticle as well as if it was family: but here he was, manhandling everything.

“Randy!” the feminine voice floated in from outside. “The chopper will be here in five minutes.”

“I know!” he called back, louder than necessary. Then, modulating his voice: “I’ll be ready.”

He should have expected this: he was annoyed. As always on the last day of each annual pilgrimage to the Kalimatsu Glacier.

He rolled up his North Face bag with practiced twists, then stuffed it into its sack and pulled the lanyard tight. He glanced around. Backpack, scientific gear, laptop, notebook, toilet kit — everything was ready. The ice core equipment was lashed together. All that remained was to break down the tent, and he could do that in sixty seconds. He pushed all the gear out ahead of him, then ducked through into the open air.

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