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Linda's camp was a hundred yards back, up on the flat, surrounded by dry grass and nondescript
scrubby bushes, their leaves a dusty grey-green. This was the centre of the Flinders Ranges, a few
hundred miles from the rhythmites of Pichi Richi Pass. The ground was a rich golden brown, and the
limestone hills around the plain were low, their slopes gentle.
Her vibrant red Suzuki truck, with its soft top, clashed nastily with this muted countryside. But the
rest of the camp blended. A pale wooden table with folding legs, a hefty plastic water carrier that held
25 litres, and a tidy pile of twigs and small branches collected in advance for the night's fire. (Always
collect wood from gum trees—the few cypresses and pines leave a sticky black goo on the bottom of
your pans.) A half-dome tent, Outback colours, green and grey, carefully upwind of the fire.
The bulky HF radio Linda had left in her truck. That had been a waste of limited space. It was a
loan from the mines department and was supposed to be working, but all she could hear was static.
So much for communicating with the outside world. The only human contact she'd had for a week
had been two days earlier when, bumping her way in the Suzuki past the main buildings of the sheep
station, she'd stopped and asked permission to put holes in the rocks. The men at the station had stared
at her, baffled. Why should she want to? Why should they care?
Linda Sohl, a girl from the Bronx, was finally beginning to feel at home in the Outback. This was
her third field season, she was nearly halfway through her Ph.D., and things were looking good. She
was twenty-eight years old, plump, pretty, with neatly manicured fingernails, tiny silver hoops in her
ears, soft brown hair cut and flicked into symmetrical waves that framed her face. She had enorm-
ous deep brown eyes. In different circumstances, without the safety goggles and the field gear and the
rock drill, you'd probably take her for a sensible older sister. She'd seem cautious, level-headed, of-
ten reserved. But she had an air of resolve about her and—on occasion—the unmistakable look of a
dreamer.
Dreams of adventure had taken her two years earlier from her well-paid but dull job at a New York
publishing house and propelled her back to college. Her parents were horrified. A Ph.D.? In geology?
Where's the security in that? Still, in spring 1993, Linda had arrived in the office of Nick Christie-
Blick, whom she'd met at a seminar.
Nick had invited Linda to visit his lab, in the leafy New York suburbs, and Linda was feeling hope-
ful. She knew how hard it was to get into a Ph.D. programme at such a prestigious place as Lamont
Doherty, especially as she hadn't taken the conventional route straight from college. Still, Nick had
expressed interest, and that was a good sign. Linda didn't know quite what to expect—an interview,
perhaps a tour of the lab. She was determined to make the best possible impression.
No need. Nick had already decided to take her on. When she walked through the door at nine-thirty
in the morning, he had spread out various geological maps of South Australia and he immediately
began suggesting different field areas. “Do you have a passport?” he asked her. “We need to get you a
visa.” Several weeks later they were driving together through the Australian Outback.
She'd never camped before, not even with the Girl Scouts. She'd never even seen a sheep before,
not close up at least.
A few days after they set out, Linda and Nick were in the car park of a small motel, transferring
gear from one vehicle to another. Back and forth they went, arms full, past a pickup truck loaded with
rusty old farm equipment, bales of wire, and a sheep—lying on its side. Linda was fascinated. She
stopped and stared. It didn't blink, didn't seem to be breathing. It was absolutely still. Its eyes were a
dull light brown colour. She thought they looked like the blank, dead eyes of a stuffed teddy bear. She
put her head closer. Suddenly, without warning, the sheep blinked and turned its head. Linda yelped
