of my editor if I come back with two stories for the price of one.“ He glanced ahead at a wide ice floe that filled the gap between two mountains. ”Wow! That must be our glacier."

“Yup. Im Langue du Dormeur. ”The Sleeper's Tongue.“ ” The helicopter made a pass over the river of ice that flowed down a wide valley to the lake. Rugged, snow-dusted foothills of black rock hemmed the glacier in on both sides, shaping it into a rounded point. The edges of the ice field were ragged where the flow encountered crevasses and ravines. The ice had a bluish tinge and was cracked along its surface like the parched tongue of a lost prospector.

Rawlins leaned forward for a better look. “The Sleeper should see a doctor. He's got a bad case of trench mouth.”

“As you said, poetic license,” Thurston said. “Hold on. We're about to land.”

The helicopter darted over the leading edge of the glacier and the pilot put the aircraft into a slow banking turn. Moments later, the chopper's runners touched down on a brown grassy strip a couple of hundred feet from the lake.

Thurston helped the pilot unload a number of cartons from the helicopter and suggested that Rawlins stretch his legs. The reporter walked to the water's edge. The lake was unearthly in its stillness. No ripple of air disturbed the surface, which looked hard enough to walk across. He threw a stone to reassure himself that the lake wasn't frozen solid.

Rawlins's gaze shifted from the widening ripples to the boat anchored about a quarter mile from shore. He recognized the distinctive turquoise blue-green color of the hull immediately. He had encountered vessels of similar color while on writing assignments. Even without the letters numa painted in bold black letters on the hull, he would have known the boat belonged to the National Underwater and Marine Agency. He wondered what a NUMA vessel was doing in this remote place far from the nearest ocean.

There was definitely an unexpected story here, but it would have to wait. Thurston was calling him. A battered Citroen 2C was hurtling toward the parked helicopter in a cloud of dust. The pint-sized auto skidded to a stop next to the chopper and a man who resembled a mountain troll emerged from the driver's side like a creature hatched from a deformed egg. He was short and dark-complexioned, with a black beard and long hair.

The man pumped Thurston's hand. “Wonderful to have you back, Monsieur le profess eur And you must be the journalist, Monsieur Rawlins. I am Bernard LeBlanc. Welcome.”

“Thanks, Dr. LeBlanc,” Rawlins said. “I've been looking forward to my visit. I can't wait to see the amazing work you're doing here.”

“Come along then,” LeBlanc said, snatching up the reporter's duffel bag. “Fifi awaits.” “Fifi?” Rawlins looked around as if he expected to see a dancer from the Follies Bergere.