High Point

They decided to spend the night in the weather station at the top of Mount Banshee, overlooking the Longreach Glacier. It was late in the season and strong winds battered the summit.

Van forced the airlock and Laura gratefully shook the dust from her boots. Inside, a discarded pressure suit sprawled on a bunk, hanging open like a dissected ghost, and a golden buddha statue lounged on a windowsill, its fat cheeks spread in a lazy smile.

She followed Van into the station's control room and watched as he switched on the light and heat, allowing them to shrug off their thick parkas. Laura, her cheeks pink and hair mussed, stood close to one of the air vents, enjoying the warmth.

'What do we have left to eat?' she said.

Van rooted through the hamper they'd brought, finding a wedge of brie, a couple of bread rolls, and a tub of olives. Spreading a blanket on the control room floor, he shared the food onto plastic plates. And then he went and found a couple of tin mugs in the station's galley, so they could share the bottle of wine Laura carried in her knapsack.

They had a glass each, and huddled together on the blanket as they ate. Outside, the wind battered the shutters.

'We should've brought something warmer to eat,' Van said, cutting a slice of cheese. Laura smiled, leaning back. She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder, swirling the wine in her mug so the ripples caught the dim light from the control room monitors.

The radio played dance music from Earth, scratchy with pops and hisses, the beat as regular as a metronome. Van put his arm around her, and she kissed him, then buried her face in the flame-proof fabric of his chest.

He was tapping his foot.

'I'm pregnant,' she said.

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