THE ALBATROSS And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between. - Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Rime of the Ancient Mariner PART I:  THE WAIT Lying prone on an unforgiving bed of powdered ice, kneading his bad hip with one gloved hand as he squinted through a shifting curtain of CO2 sleet, Lawson reflected—not for the first time—that the environmental extremes weren’t the hardest part to deal with.   Not the crushing pressure, nor the bone-deep ache of the relentless gravity, nor the stinging lash of the dry ice particles that was diminished