Matthew Reilly’s Ice Station is somewhat in the Crichton or Clancy vein, of which, well, you know. It has the cringing down pat. Nevertheless, can’t blame it for what it is, I knew that going in and I knew I was going to regret it, but the real problem: Reilly appears to have reached adulthood unaware that whales and dolphins have blowholes through which to breathe. I am unable to fathom this.