The tunnel with its strip-lighting, cutting like a glowing neon tube through the heart of the ice and rock; the fur boots, hooded parkas, fur-lined gauntlets; the little car on rails that sped them to Vicki’s resting place; the numbered niche (2139) in the rock wall, where her body lay in frozen suspension, still riddled with the cancer which had killed her but rigid now and frozen as the emaciated shell containing it?