what she does.”
Sexton gave her a suggestive smirk. “So am I.”
21
T he cavernous main chamber of NASA’s habisphere would have been a strange sight anywhere on earth, but the fact that it existed on an Arctic ice shelf made it that much more difficult for Rachel Sexton to assimilate.
Staring upward into a futuristic dome crafted of white interlocking triangular pads, Rachel felt like she had entered a colossal sanatorium. The walls sloped downward to a floor of solid ice, where an army of halogen lamps stood like sentinels around the perimeter, casting stark light skyward and giving the whole chamber an ephemeral luminosity.
Snaking across the ice floor, black foam carpet-runners wound like boardwalks through a maze of portable scientific work stations. Amid the electronics, thirty or forty white-clad NASA personnel were hard at work, conferring happily and talking in excited tones. Rachel immediately recognized the electricity in the room.
It was the thrill of new discovery.
As Rachel and the administrator circled the outer edge of the dome, she noted the surprised looks of displeasure from those who recognized her. Their whispers carried clearly in the reverberant space.
Isn’t that Senator Sexton’s daughter?
What the hell is SHE doing here?
I can’t believe the administrator is even speaking to her!
Rachel half expected to see voodoo dolls of her father dangling everywhere. The animosity around her, though, was not the only emotion in the air; Rachel also sensed a distinct smugness—as if NASA clearly knew who would be having the last laugh.
The administrator led Rachel toward a series of tables where a lone man sat at a computer work station. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, wide-wale corduroys, and heavy boat shoes, rather than the matching NASA weather gear everyone else seemed to be wearing. He had his back to them.
The administrator asked Rachel to wait as he went over and spoke to the stranger. After a moment, the man in the turtleneck gave him a congenial nod and started shutting down his computer. The administrator returned.
“Mr. Tolland will take it from here,” he said. “He’s another one of the President’s recruits, so you two should get along fine. I’ll join you later.”
“Thank you.”
“I assume you’ve heard of Michael Tolland?”
Rachel shrugged, her brain still taking in the incredible surroundings. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
The man in the turtleneck arrived, grinning. “Doesn’t ring a bell?” His voice was resonant and friendly. “Best news I’ve heard all day. Seems I never get a chance to make a first impression anymore.”
When Rachel glanced up at the newcomer, her feet froze in place. She knew the man’s handsome face in an instant. Everyone in America did.
“Oh,” she said, blushing as the man shook her hand. “You’re that Michael Tolland.”
When the President had told Rachel he had recruited top-notch civilian scientists to authenticate NASA’s discovery, Rachel had imagined a group of wizened nerds with monogrammed calculators. Michael Tolland was the antithesis. One of the best known “science celebrities” in America today, Tolland hosted a weekly documentary called Amazing Seas, duringwhich he brought viewers face-to-face with spellbinding oceanic phenomena—underwater volcanoes, ten-foot sea worms, killer tidal waves. The media hailed Tolland as a cross between Jacques Cousteau and Carl Sagan, crediting his knowledge, unpretentious enthusiasm, and lust for adventure as the formula that had rocketed Amazing Seas to the top of the ratings. Of course, most critics admitted, Tolland’s rugged good looks and self-effacing charisma probably didn’t hurt his popularity with the female audience.
“Mr. Tolland . . . ,” Rachel said, fumbling the words a bit. “I’m Rachel Sexton.”
Tolland smiled a pleasant, crooked smile. “Hi, Rachel. Call me Mike.”
Rachel found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
Sexton gave her a suggestive smirk. “So am I.”
21
T he cavernous main chamber of NASA’s habisphere would have been a strange sight anywhere on earth, but the fact that it existed on an Arctic ice shelf made it that much more difficult for Rachel Sexton to assimilate.
Staring upward into a futuristic dome crafted of white interlocking triangular pads, Rachel felt like she had entered a colossal sanatorium. The walls sloped downward to a floor of solid ice, where an army of halogen lamps stood like sentinels around the perimeter, casting stark light skyward and giving the whole chamber an ephemeral luminosity.
Snaking across the ice floor, black foam carpet-runners wound like boardwalks through a maze of portable scientific work stations. Amid the electronics, thirty or forty white-clad NASA personnel were hard at work, conferring happily and talking in excited tones. Rachel immediately recognized the electricity in the room.
It was the thrill of new discovery.
As Rachel and the administrator circled the outer edge of the dome, she noted the surprised looks of displeasure from those who recognized her. Their whispers carried clearly in the reverberant space.
Isn’t that Senator Sexton’s daughter?
What the hell is SHE doing here?
I can’t believe the administrator is even speaking to her!
Rachel half expected to see voodoo dolls of her father dangling everywhere. The animosity around her, though, was not the only emotion in the air; Rachel also sensed a distinct smugness—as if NASA clearly knew who would be having the last laugh.
The administrator led Rachel toward a series of tables where a lone man sat at a computer work station. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, wide-wale corduroys, and heavy boat shoes, rather than the matching NASA weather gear everyone else seemed to be wearing. He had his back to them.
The administrator asked Rachel to wait as he went over and spoke to the stranger. After a moment, the man in the turtleneck gave him a congenial nod and started shutting down his computer. The administrator returned.
“Mr. Tolland will take it from here,” he said. “He’s another one of the President’s recruits, so you two should get along fine. I’ll join you later.”
“Thank you.”
“I assume you’ve heard of Michael Tolland?”
Rachel shrugged, her brain still taking in the incredible surroundings. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
The man in the turtleneck arrived, grinning. “Doesn’t ring a bell?” His voice was resonant and friendly. “Best news I’ve heard all day. Seems I never get a chance to make a first impression anymore.”
When Rachel glanced up at the newcomer, her feet froze in place. She knew the man’s handsome face in an instant. Everyone in America did.
“Oh,” she said, blushing as the man shook her hand. “You’re that Michael Tolland.”
When the President had told Rachel he had recruited top-notch civilian scientists to authenticate NASA’s discovery, Rachel had imagined a group of wizened nerds with monogrammed calculators. Michael Tolland was the antithesis. One of the best known “science celebrities” in America today, Tolland hosted a weekly documentary called Amazing Seas, duringwhich he brought viewers face-to-face with spellbinding oceanic phenomena—underwater volcanoes, ten-foot sea worms, killer tidal waves. The media hailed Tolland as a cross between Jacques Cousteau and Carl Sagan, crediting his knowledge, unpretentious enthusiasm, and lust for adventure as the formula that had rocketed Amazing Seas to the top of the ratings. Of course, most critics admitted, Tolland’s rugged good looks and self-effacing charisma probably didn’t hurt his popularity with the female audience.
“Mr. Tolland . . . ,” Rachel said, fumbling the words a bit. “I’m Rachel Sexton.”
Tolland smiled a pleasant, crooked smile. “Hi, Rachel. Call me Mike.”
Rachel found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
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