"Yes, also my idea,” he said benignly. As always, the sound of his own rich, confident baritone pleased and soothed him. “It seemed to me it would be fitting."

That much was true. He had suggested Glacier Bay as the logical meeting place without giving it much thought. And now he was quite pleased that he had. The idea was already producing dividends. That toast last night was going to make a fine opening scene for the book (sans Anna's muttered contribution, naturally). And now, happily, they would be leaving in a few minutes to choose a place for the memorial plaque. And that little excursion would surely furnish the material for a splendidly poignant final chapter for his book. It would provide a needed sense of completion, of a circle come closed. Or would it do better as an epilogue? More sense of closure that way…

Dwarfed by the ghostly white immensity of Tirku Glacier, we stood silent and bareheaded in the wan sunlight. Or would mist be more evocative? Yes, make that mist. Who was going to remember? We were there to pay tribute to Jocelyn Yount, Steven Fisk, and James Pratt, whose remains were forever locked in the great ice flow, but my thoughts were "I have a question."

Tremaine surfaced. “Dr. Fisk?"

At forty, Dr. (of dentistry) Elliott Fisk was the youngest of the group, a balding, unappetizing man whose remaining fringe of hair had been allowed, perhaps even encouraged, to grow into a stringy curtain that hung limply from the level of his ears. A close-cropped but equally offensive gray-splotched beard straggled over his face and neck, growing in all directions. With rectangular gold-rimmed glasses framing glittery eyes, a pinched nose, and a tight little mouth working behind the sparse beard, he was like a cartoon anarchist from the editorial pages of Tremaine's childhood. All that was needed was a spherical bomb with a sputtering fuse in each hand.