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before he lost contact with the research station. You are one of the few people in the world I believe would be open-minded enough to help me track it down and comprehend it. I have a recording of my father’s last transmission. Would you be willing to listen to it?”
    “Sure,” Gabriel said, downing a healthy swallow of his scotch.
    Velda took a CD in an unmarked jewel case from her purse and handed it to Michael, who slipped it into the laptop computer sitting on the far side of the reading table.
    After a few seconds of silence, broken only by the tapping of Michael’s efficient keystrokes, a harsh cloud of static came out of the computer’s speaker, followed by a male voice, struggling to be heard over the background noise.
    “…a deep, vertical fissure…” The voice faded in and out; only disjointed fragments of sentences came through. “I am uninjured but unable to…” A burst of static drowned out what he was unable to do. “…sud denly quite warm…”
    There was a lengthy pause, nothing but a low soft hiss punctuated by occasional pops and crackles.
    “I don’t—” Gabriel started to say.
    “Sh,” Velda said. “Listen.” Then to Michael: “Could you please turn up the volume?”
    More hissing, only louder now. Gabriel was starting to suspect Michael was right about Velda; the Foundation certainly got its share of crazies, mostly by mail (or these days, e-mail), but once in a while showing up in person. Of course, most of them didn’t look as appealing as this one, but—
    As he was about to politely send her on her way, the male voice spoke again, a single distinct sentence rising above the ambient noise.
    “I see…trees,” the incredulous voice said.
    Then the recording abruptly ended, leaving the room hushed and its occupants thoughtful and silent.
    “Trees?” Gabriel repeated. “There are no trees in Antarctica.”
    “Precisely,” Velda said. “I think my father stumbled upon some kind of climatic anomaly. A hidden, subterranean warm spot—perhaps a preserved window into Antarctica’s verdant prehistoric past. Furthermore, in an environment where trees could survive, it might be possible for my father to survive as well, for longer than normal, anyway. Mr. Hunt, I believe that my father could still be alive. I believe that he has discovered something of unprecedented scientific and historical significance, and I want to organize an immediate expedition to trace his path, verify his findings…and hopefully bring him home alive.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “Are you with me, Mr. Hunt?”
    Gabriel had to admit he was intrigued. He emptied his glass and set it down.
    “Let me make some calls,” Gabriel said. “I’ll get back to you in two hours with a definite answer.”
    Velda nodded and tossed back the rest of her drink.
    “Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” she said, setting a simple off-white business card on the table alongside her now empty glass. “I look forward to your response.”
    Gabriel couldn’t help watching the graceful sway of her hips and tan, muscular legs as she walked swiftly away.
    “What do you make of that?” Gabriel asked his brother, once she was gone.
    “Lawrence Silver is seventy-five years old,” Michael said. “He’s a tough specimen—survived one of the camps as a child; Buchenwald, I think—but still, seventy-five is no age to be traipsing around the South Pole. Then this…” Michael shook his head. “The poor man was obviously near death and hallucinating at the time he made that transmission. Modern geothermal imaging and satellite photography have mapped every inch of the Antarctic landscape. No ‘warm spot’ could possibly exist and escape detection.” He pressed the Eject key and Velda Silver’s CD slid out of the computer. He tossed it on a stack of rejected grant proposals. “You would have to be as deluded as she obviously is to take on a pointless and dangerous expedition like this.”
    Gabriel nodded, taking his