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　Walter　Winings　Nelson；　artist；　photographer；　and　partner　in　adventure。
　Acknowledgments
　The　authors　would　like　to　acknowledge　mander　Stephen　Littfin；　United　States　Naval　Reserve；　for　his　invaluable　help　with　the　naval　aspects　of　The　Ice　Limit。　Our　deep　gratitude　also　goes　out　to　Michael　Tusiani　and　Captain　Emilio　Fernandez　Sierra；　who　corrected　various　tanker…related　elements　of　the　manuscript。　We　would　also　like　to　thank　Tim　Tiernan　for　his　advice　on　metallurgy　and　physics；　the　meteorite　hunter　Charlie　Snell　of　Santa　Fe　for　information　on　how　meteorite　hunters　actually　operate；　and　Frank　Ryle；　senior　structural　engineer　at　Ove　Arup　&　Partners。　We　also　want　to　express　our　appreciation　to　various　other　anonymous　engineers　who　shared　with　us　confidential　engineering　details　related　to　moving　exremely　heavy　objects。
　Lincoln　Child　would　like　to　thank　his　wife；　Luchie；　for　just　about　everything；　Sonny　Baula　for　the　Tagalog　translations；　Greg　Tear　for　being　such　an　eager　and　petent　critic；　and　his　daughter；　Veronica；　for　making　every　day　precious。　Also；　thanks　to　Denis　Kelly；　Malou　Baula；　and　Juanito　〃Boyet〃　Nepomuceno　for　their　various　and　sundry　ministrations。　And　my　heartfelt　gratitude　to　Liz　Ciner；　Roger　Lasley；　and　especially　George　Soule；　my　adviser　（had　I　but　known　it！）　all　this　last　quarter　century。　May　the　warm　enlightening　sun　shine　always　upon　Carleton　College　and　its　progeny。
　Douglas　Preston　would　like　to　thank　his　wife；　Christine；　and　his　three　children；　Selene；　Aletheia；　and　Isaac；　for　their　love　and　support。
　We　also　wish　to　thank　Betsy　Mitchell　and　Jaime　Levine　of　Warner　Books；　Eric　Simonoff　of　Janklow　&　Nesbit　Associates；　and　Matthew　Snyder　of　CAA。
　
　
　Isla　Desolacion；
　January　16；　1：15　P。M。
　
　　THE　VALLEY　that　had　no　name　ran　between　barren　hills；　a　long　mottled　floor　of　gray　and　green　covered　with　soldier　moss；　lichens；　and　carpha　grasses。　It　was　mid…January　…　the　height　of　summer　…　and　the　crevasses　between　the　patches　of　broken　rock　were　mortared　with　tiny　pinguicula　flowers。　To　the　east；　the　wall　of　a　snowfield　gleamed　a　bottomless　blue。　Blackflies　and　mosquitoes　droned　in　the　air；　and　the　summer　fogs　that　shrouded　Isla　Desolacion　had　temporarily　broken　apart；　allowing　a　watery　sunlight　to　speckle　the　valley　floor。
　A　man　walked　slowly　across　the　island's　graveled　flats；　stopping；　moving；　then　stopping　again。　He　was　not　following　a　trail　…　in　the　Cape　Horn　islands；　at　the　nethermost　tip　of　South　America；　there　were　none。
　Nestor　Masangkay　was　dressed　in　worn　oilskins　and　a　greasy　leather　hat。　His　wispy　beard　was　so　thick　with　sea　salt　that　it　had　divided　itself　into　forked　tips。　It　waggled　like　a　snake's　tongue　as　he　led　two　heavily　burdened　mules　across　the　flats。　There　was　no　one　to　hear　his　voice　menting　unfavorably　on　the　mules'　parentage；　character；　and　right　to　existence。　Once　in　a　while　the　plaints　were　punctuated　with　the　thwack　of　a　sucker　rod　that　he　carried　in　one　brown　hand。　He　had　never　met　a　mule；　especially　a　rented　mule；　that　he　liked。
　But　Masangkay's　voice　held　no　anger；　and　the　thwacks　of　his　sucker　rod　held　little　force。　Excitement　was　rising　within　him。　His　eyes　roamed　over　the　landscape；　taking　in　every　detail：　the　columnar　basaltic　escarpment　a　mile　away；　the　double…throated　volcanic　plug；　the　unusual　outcropping　of　sedimentary　rock。　The　geology　was　promising。　Very　promising。
　　He　walked　across　the　valley　floor；　eyes　on　the　ground。　Once　in　a　while　a　hobnailed　boot　would　lash　out　and　kick　a　rock　loose。　The　beard　waggled；　Masangkay　grunted；　and　the　curious　pack　train　would　move　on　once　again。
　In　the　center　of　the　valley；　Masangkay's　boot　dislodged　a　rock　from　the　flat。　But　this　time　he　stopped　to　pick　it　up。　The　man　examined　the　soft　rock；　rubbing　it　with　his　thumb；　abrading　small　granules　that　clung　to　his　skin。　He　brought　it　to　his　face　and　peered　at　the　grit　with　a　jeweler's　loupe。
　He　recognized　this　specimen　…　a　friable；　greenish　material　with　white　inclusions　…　as　a　mineral　known　as　coesite。　It　was　this　ugly；　worthless　rock　that　he　had　traveled　twelve　thousand　miles　to　find。
　His　face　broke　into　a　broad　grin；　and　he　opened　his　arms　to　heaven　and　let　out　a　terrific　whoop　of　joy；　the　hills　trading　echoes　of　his　voice；　back　and　forth；　back　and　forth；　until　at　last　it　died　away。
　He　fell　silent　and　looked　around　at　the　hills；　gauging　the　alluvial　pattern　of　erosion。　His　gaze　lingered　again　on　the　sedimentary　outcrop；　its　layers　clearly　delineated。　Then　his　eyes　returned　to　the　ground。　He　led　the　mules　another　ten　yards　and　pried　a　second　stone　loose　from　the　valley　floor　with　his　foot；　turning　it　over。　Then　he　kicked　loose　a　third　stone；　and　a　fourth。　It　was　all　coesite　…　the　valley　floor　was　practically　paved　with　it。
　Near　the　edge　of　the　snowfield；　a　boulder　…　a　glacial　erratic　…　lay　atop　the　tundra。　Masangkay　led　his　mules　over　to　the　boulder　and　tied　them　to　it。　Then；　keeping　his　movements　as　slow　and　deliberate　as　possible；　he　walked　back　across　the　flats；　picking　up　rocks；　scuffing　the　ground　with　his　boot；　drawing　a　mental　map　of　the　coesite　distribution。　It　was　incredible；　exceeding　even　his　most　optimistic　assumptions。
　　He　had　e　to　this　island　with　realistic　hopes。　He　knew　from　personal　experience　that　local　legends　rarely　panned　out。　He　recalled　the　dusty　museum　library　where　he　had　first　e　across　the　legend　of　Hanuxa：　the　smell　of　the　crumbling　anthropological　monograph；　the　faded　pictures　of　artifacts　and　long…dead　Indians。　He　almost　hadn't　bothered；　Cape　Horn　was　a　hell　of　a　long　way　from　New　York　City。　And　his　instincts　had　often　been　wrong　in　the　past。　But　here　he　was。
　And　he　had　found　the　prize　of　a　lifetime。
　Masangkay　took　a　deep　breath。　He　was　getting　ahead　of　himself。　Walking　back　to　the　boulder；　he　reached　beneath　the　belly　of　the　lead　packmule。　Working　swiftly；　he　unraveled　the　diamond　hitch；　pulled　the　hemp　rope　from　the　pack；　and　unbuckled　the　wooden　box　panniers。　Unlatching　the　lid　of　one　pannier；　he　pulled　out　a　long　drysack　and　laid　it　on　the　ground。　From　it　he　extracted　six　aluminum　cylinders；　a　small　puter　keyboard　and　screen；　a　leather　strap；　two　metal　spheres；　and　a　nicad　battery。　Sitting　cross…legged　on　the　ground；　he　assembled　the　equipment　into　an　aluminum　rod　fifteen　feet　long；　with　spherical　projections　at　either　end。　He　fitted　the　puter　to　its　center；　clipped　on　the　leather　strap；　and　slapped　the　battery　into　a　slot　on　one　side。　He　stood　up；　examining　the　high…tech　object　with　satisfaction：　a　shiny　anachronism　among　the　grubby　pack　gear。　It　was　an　electromagnetic　tomographic　sounder；　and　it　was　worth　over　fifty　thousand　dollars　…　a　ten…thousand　down　payment　and　financing　for　the　rest；　which　was　proving　to　be　a　struggle　to　pay　off　atop　all　his　other　debts。　Of　course；　when　this　project　paid　off；　he　could　settle　with　everyone　…　even　his　old　partner。
　Masangkay　flicked　the　power　switch　and　waited　for　the　machine　to　warm　up。　He　raised　the　screen　into　position；　grasped　a　handle　at　the　center　of　the　rod；　and　let　the　weight　settle　around　his　neck；　balancing　the　sounder　the　way　a　high…wire　artist　balances　his　pole。　With　his　free　hand　he　checked　the　settings；　calibrated　and　zeroed　the　instrument；　and　then　began　walking　steadily　across　the　long　flat　staring　fixedly　at　the　screen。　As　he　walked；　fog　drifted　in　and　the　sky　grew　dark。　Near　the　center　of　the　flat；　he　suddenly　stopped。
　Masangkay　stared　at　the　screen　in　surprise。　Then　he　adjusted　some　settings　and　took　another　step。　Once　again　he　paused；　brow　furrowed。　With　a　curse　he　switched　the　machine　off；　returned　to　the　edge　of　the　flat；　rezeroed　the　machine；　and　walked　at　right　angles　to　his　previous　path。　Again　he　paused；　surprise　giving　way　to　disbelief。　He　marked　the　spot　with　two　rocks；　one　atop　the　other。　Then　he　walked　to　the　far　side　of　the　flat；　turned；　and　came　back；　more　quickly　now。　A　soft　rain　was　beading　on　his　face　and　shoulders；　but　he　ignored　it。　He　pressed　a　button；　and　a　narrow　line　of　paper　began　spooling　out　of　the　puter。　He　examined　it　closely；　ink　bleeding　down　the　paper　in　the　mist。　His　breath　came　faster。　At　first　he　thought　the　data　was　wrong：　but　there　it　was；　three　passes；　all　perfectly　consistent。　He　made　yet　another　pass；　more　reckless　than　the　last；　tearing　off　another　spool　of　paper；　examining　it　quickly；　then　balling　it　into　his　jacket　pocket。
　After　the　fourth　pass；　he　began　talking　to　himself　in　a　low；　rapid　monotone。　Veering　back　toward　the　mules；　he　dropped　the　tomographic　sounder　on　the　drysack　and　untied　the　second　mule's　pack　with　trembling　hands。　In　his　haste；　one　of　the　panniers　fell　to　the　ground　and　split　open；　spilling　picks；　shovels；　rock　hammers；　an　auger；　and　a　bundle　of　dynamite。　Masangkay　scooped　up　a　pick　and　shovel　and　jogged　back　to　the　center　of　the　flat。　Flinging　the　shovel　to　the　ground；　he　began　feverishly　swinging　the　pick；　breaking　up　the　rough　surface。　Then　he　scooped　out　the　loosened　gravel　with　the　shovel；　throwing　it　well　to　the　side。　He　continued　in　this　fashion；　alternating　pick　and　shovel。　The　mules　watched　him　with　plete　impassivity；　heads　drooping；　eyes　half…lidded。
　Masangkay　worked　as　the　rain　began　to　stiffen。　Shallow　pools　collected　at　the　lowest　points　of　the　graveled　flat。　A　cold　smell　of　i