James R. Terry's Cameras

They were all there, in the "furnace of the world," as the papers had started calling it, and they were getting annoyed with James R. Terry's cameras. First, this was supposed to be a scientific trip, not a photo shoot. Everywhere you turned, there was Terry with his cameras, and his direction. "Can you just walk up that ridge again?" and "Can I get you to sort of crouch right there, with the smoke coming up behind you?"

It was easy to be annoyed with him. Him and his thin mustache. No one had caught him at it, but he had to spend some time every couple days in front of a mirror with tweezers, or whatever. He was underfoot. And he wouldn't carry any supplies. Any trip supplies. He always his hands full with camera stuff in bags.

But the thing that got to everyone, even if they weren't totally aware of it, was what the cameras implied: someone would be seeing these pictures. Sometime. Later. When they wouldn't be able to explain for themselves what they had seen. He was writing their epitaph, one click and flash at a time. That was unsettling.

All around them, volcanoes stirred. The air was filled with plumes. They had meters to tell them when the concentration of poison in the air was too much. In other words, they were all walking through poison every day. The question was, Is there too much poison today? This was the kind of thing that each man needed his mind on. It was unpleasant, but distraction could kill faster than sulfur in the air. And James Terry's cameras were a distraction, a reminder that someone might need to tell their story for them, that they would unable to. And he wouldn't let anyone forget that.