Three scientists came out of the research station to watch our group as we larked about at the sign-and-pole that marked the Pole, laughing and taking selfies and pictures of each other.

They came over to chat, and one of the scientists, a woman in a red parka just like Paulo's, offered to take a picture of us as a group.

I was in good spirits after the hike and it was pretty dark, so I even joined the crew for the picture, Ruben's arm around me, GlobalGreen be damned.

We were the first tourists that had ever been at the Pole during the long night, the scientists told us.

Turns out those ottercopters were something special—the research stations didn't have them. The skeleton crew we met out on the ice at the Pole that day were hunkered down, trapped, unable to leave until spring-time.

Which made us quite the novelty.

"I'm sure InTrepid would help you out," I said, "if there was an emergency."

The lady scientist shrugged, handing Ruben back his camera. Her coat was making me think of Paulo, which reminded me of my shameful behaviour. I tried to shake it off.

The lady scientist and Ruben were now chatting about crab stalls in Baltimore, which is where she was from.

"The South Pole research station is an American base," Ruben told me as we hiked back to the ottercopter, still dawdling behind the others so we were almost alone.

"The US don't have any territorial claims in the Antarctic, but they're still like, Boom bitches, here's our station at the South fuckin' Pole."

"Who does have a territorial claim here?" I asked, puffing air up with my bottom lip in an attempt to thaw my nose.

"You guys, the Brits. New Zealand. Argentina."

I told myself not to think about Paulo.

"Chile. Australia. Norway," Ruben went on.

"Not Russia?" I said, remembering Sam and his story.

"Nope, but they definitely got an interest," Ruben said. "They've been building way more research bases out here recently. China too. And if you think that's about a pure love of science, you're fuckin' dumb. It's about making sure you got some fingers in the pie when the time comes to exploit the resources."

"What resources?" I asked, surveying the dark, icy wasteland around us.

"Oil," Ruben said. "There's a fuck tonne of it under the ice."

"But surely they couldn't drill for oil here?"

"They could if they had the technology, which Russia do." He shrugged. "They're already drilling in the Arctic. They're just not allowed to here—yet—cause of the Antarctic Treaty."

We walked on in silence as I mulled over Ruben's words.

"So you think InTrepid is a Russian company?" I asked.

"Seems so, if the Russians took those bodies."

"So that would make the Ottercopters a Russian technology," I said. "Which is why the US research stations don't have them."

Ruben raised his eyebrows at me and nodded. Only his eyes were visible over his scarf.

"It seems weird they would use something so cutting-edge for tourism," I mused. "Don't you think?"

"That I do, Scotch," Ruben said. "That I do. And I like the way your suspicious mind works, baby."

I buried my face in my scarf to disguise my smile.

"Maybe if we could trace the background of the company somehow," I carried on, "we might find out more. See if they're linked to the Russian government. Or the military. It could be the same as those research stations, like you said. The company has a bigger purpose than tourism. They could be... prospecting for oil, or whatever."

"I like it," Ruben said. "We could have a look online when we get back." He grinned. "You're sexy when you're smart, you know that?"

"We could even ask Sam," I added, on a roll. "He might have payslips or something with information on we could use to trace the company."

Ruben scuffed my arm gently with his fist.

"You sure you aren't an undercover Washington Post journalist, Scotch?"

I buried my smile deeper in my scarf.

We hiked on, the hulking form of the ottercopter visible now. The rest of the team were starting to cluster around it, their head-torches finding its shape.

"Do you..." I asked Ruben cautiously, "how much do you trust Sam? I mean, do you think he's genuine?"

I bit my lip, ready for Ruben to defend his new best friend.

"I dunno," Ruben said. "He's a real Kanye, ain't he? Always licking his own asshole about every fuckin' thing he's done."

"Yeah," I said, relieved that my Sam suspicion hadn't been exposed as paranoia. "And it's kinda convenient, isn't it? That he just happened to be the only one not around when the incident happened."

"That it is, kid, that it is," Ruben said. "You think the oirish,"—terrible Irish accent—"might know more than he's letting on?"

"Maybe," I said.

"May-be," Ruben repeated. "He might be the key to cracking this case wide open. Looks like we got some investigating to do, eh? See if we can get to the bottom of this."

He winked at me conspiratorially.

This time, I didn't hide my smile.

"You wanna come round to my room after dinner, hit the net?" Ruben asked casually. "We could tell Suzie we're having an early night, so don't have to listen to her shit."

"Sure," I said.

The silence of the polar night was broken by the whirring blades of the ottercopter firing up, its bright lights now switched on.

Ruben reached out and grabbed my gloved hand in his. Laughing, we ran clumsily towards it.

***

Ruben kept smiling at me flirtatiously as we flew through the darkness, the rest of our team packed sleepily around us.

My stomach was buzzing with nervous excitement, both at the change in him, and the thought of investigating the mystery, getting ourselves further involved.

I wondered about Sam. The only survivor, the only witness. Could he have done it somehow? But why? Did he know something about the Russians—about InTrepid—that we didn't?

Was he just acting dumb for his own safety, until he'd got that precious ottercopter out of here?

Maybe he was a spy, working for the Americans. Or the Irish? No, that didn't make sense. But maybe by using an Irish spy, the Americans had made it less suspicious? Or his accent was fake? He'd said he worked at McMurdo, after all.

I reminded myself to tell all this to Ruben, once we were away from the noise of the ottercopter and could audibly speak again.

I looked over at him, and he winked.

***

I repeated my theories about Sam to Ruben as soon as we were off the ottercopter, speaking into his ear so the others wouldn't hear our conspiring as the group hiked back towards the hotel.

"Now that," Ruben said, "is veeeery interesting."

He draped an arm over my shoulder, tugging me off course, away from the direction of the hotel.

"What's say me and you go up there,"—he pointed in the opposite direction, up the incline and towards the phone mast—"and interrogate our suspect?"

"Sure," I said.

I wanted to go back, if I'm honest, have some food in the (relative) warmth of the hotel. But that wasn't very game—or Viking—of me, so I agreed with Ruben and changed course towards the portacabins.

We didn't get far before we found it.

It was in a weird place. The ottercopters isolated landing spot was about 500m from the hotel, and it was a little further than that, in the other direction, to the phone mast. The hotel, landing spot and mast made a sort of off-centre triangle.

We were trudging up the long edge of that triangle, through the darkness, far from the hotel, moving towards the blinking red lights of the mast when we hit it.

It was the first time I'd ever seen a body.

It was a man, curled up in the foetal position, as hard and inhuman as a block of ice.

Hair frozen in solid tufts, skin translucent.

He was completely naked.

For a moment, I thought we'd found an alien.

"Holy shit," Ruben squeaked, his voice unnaturally high. "What the fucking fuck is this?"

He took a step back, then retched, as if to be sick in the snow.

It reminded me of dead animals I'd seen back on crofts on the islands, of stillborn calves and sheep.

I stepped forward to inspect it, fear expanding in my chest.

The eyes were open. The lips and fingers were blue. A tiny frozen penis curled up between the naked thighs.

Then I recognised it.

Then I screamed.

It was Sam.