Exit Alpha

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The thermometer on his parka read minus 40 degrees centigrade. Whiteout and wind chill made the glacier a featureless hell. Since the split had appeared in his boot-top he’d tried everything to patch it. If they kept on like this, he’d lose his toes.

One thing was certain in Antarctica. Everything was ten times harder and more dangerous. The ‘A’ factor, they called it. The smallest mistake could kill.

Chafed by his harness, anxious about his foot, cursing the man ahead of him, Cain struggled on. They were on powder snow now, had cleared the sastrugi, thank God. But there could be crevasses here.

Zuiden, far ahead all morning, was now a speck at the end of his sledge tracks, his more powerful body better at hauling 200 pounds. He’d stopped at the top of a rise to probe with the spike of his ice axe.

Cain plodded towards him, straining to see through his goggles. In this undefined, unrelieved whiteness it was hard to spot slumps. The danger wasn’t the centre of a snow bridge. You had to watch for the fault line at the edge. Plumes blew from ridges. The wind was rising fast.

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