That night, the team leaders talk to a crowded rec room about what went wrong. Several expeditioners have demanded it. Jack briefly introduces Meg. He’s businesslike, saying she’s the expert and should be doing the explaining. He steps away as she stands.

‘What happens is, when the seals are caught they go into a dive reflex. It’s a natural thing.’ Her voice lowers. Someone yells for her to speak up. She takes a big breath.

‘When they’re diving, they shut their system down. They stop breathing and pool their blood into a central cavity. The animal went into a dive reflex when we caught it, and it didn’t come out of it. I was pumping its tail to try and get the blood circulating through it again. But when I checked its gums, they were blue. They weren’t pink, they were blue and . . . and . . . I knew then . . . that it was . . . dead.’

Her voice rises high and it skids from control and she weeps.

‘I’m sorry, this is very distressing for me. It’s such an . . . an . . . honour to work with wildlife.’

There’s a thud in her saying of honour. A curious politeness stills the audience. Meg struggles to contain the spill of her weeping. No-one moves to her. Transfixed, we watch. I go up and hug her when the talk’s over. Mark and I are the only people around her. Many expeditioners are in knots of tight talking as they leave the room. I can’t see Max. Jack is deep in conversation with Captain Crane. I know that in the kitchen the crew are saying that the animal has been killed deliberately. That the boffins did it to take a look at what was inside it. The weeping doesn’t change their thinking.

The death is debated by a government ethics committee in Australia. After three hours the committee faxes through its verdict: the project can continue, in the interests of science. The carcass is kept on board for research. The ship feels weighted by the corpse.

Nothing and everything happens on the night of the four auroras.

We come looking for each other and meet on the stairwell. The evening’s sliding into perfect conditions for viewing the southern lights, the strange optic phenomenon that neither of us has yet seen. We have a pact that the next time there’s an aurora, we’re going to photograph it. We want to trap it forever on film. Tonight, says the sky.

We retreat to our cabins to dress. I put on seven layers instead of five. The cold outside is bone deep. The chart on the bridge tells me it’s –47°C with the windchill factor.