Renaud greeted Skye with the limp, moist handshake that had triggered her revulsion the first time she met him.

“Good morning, my dear Mademoiselle Labelle. Thank you for coming to this damp, dark cave.”

“You're welcome, Professor Renaud.” She glanced around at the inhospitable surroundings. “This environment must suit you well.”

Renaud ignored the veiled suggestion that he had crawled out from under a rock and ran his eyes up and down Skye's well-put-together body as if he could see through her heavy clothing. “Anyplace where you and I are together suits me well.”

Skye stifled her gag reflex. “Perhaps you can tell me what was so important that you had to pull me away from my work.”

“With pleasure.” He reached over to take her by the arm. Skye stepped out of reach and linked her arm through LeBlanc's.

“Lead on,” she said.

The glaciologist had been watching the verbal fencing with mirthful-eyes. His mouth widened in a toothy grin and he and Skye walked arm in arm to a steep flight of rough wooden stairs. The stairs led up to a tunnel about twelve feet high and ten feet wide.

Approximately twenty paces from the stairs, the tunnel branched out into a Y. LeBlanc escorted Skye down the right-hand passageway. Water was streaming along a shallow channel that had been cut in the tunnel floor for drainage. A black rubber hose about four inches in diameter ran alongside one wall.

“Water jet,” LeBlanc explained. “We collect the drainage water, heat it up and spray it on the ice to melt it. The ice is like putty at the bottom of the glacier. We're constantly melting it, otherwise it would re-form at the rate of two to three feet a day.”

“That's very fast,” Skye said.

“Very. Sometimes we go as far as fifty meters into the glacier and we have to be alert so the ice doesn't close behind us.”

The tunnel ended in an icy slope about ten feet high. They clambered up the slippery rock surface on a ladder and entered an ice cave with space enough to hold more than a dozen people. The walls and

ceiling were bluish white except for areas that were covered with dirt scraped up by the movement of the glacier.

“We're at the bottom of the glacier,” LeBlanc said. “There is nothing but ice above our heads for eight hundred feet. This is the dirtiest part of the ice floe. It gets cleaner the more you drill into it. I must leave now to do an errand for Monsieur Renaud.”

Skye thanked him and then her attention was drawn to the far wall where a man in a raincoat was spraying the ice with a hot water hose. The melting ice generated clouds of steam, which made the damp air in the room even harder to breathe. The man turned off the jet when he saw he had visitors and came over to shake hands.