Now, like Friar Bacon's Brazen Head, I've spoken,

see I'm busy?" he asked surlily. He stopped short at the sight of the German and scowled again, irritably. "And what does this haifling want?" "Our passes and letters of authority from Herr General. They're down below." Andrea disappeared, grumbling deep in his throat. A rope was thrown ashore, the stern pulled in against the sluggish current and the papers passed over. The papersa set different from those to be used if emergency arose in Navaroneproved to be satisfactory, eminently so. Mallory would have been surprised had they been anything else. The preparation of these, even down to the photostatic facsimile of General Graebel's signature, was all in the day's work for Jensen's bureau in Cairo. The soldier folded the papers, handed them back with a muttered word of thanks. He was only a kid, Mallory could see nowif he was more than nineteen, his looks belied him. A pleasant, open-faced kidof a different stamp altogether from the young fanatics of the S.S. Panzer Divisionand far too thin. Mallory's chief reaction was one of relief: he would have hated to have to kill a boy like this. But he had to find out all he could. He signalled to Stevens to hand him up the almost empty crate of Moselle. Jensen, he mused, had been very thorough indeed: the man had literally thought of everything. . . . Mallory gestured lazily in the direction of the old watch-tower. "How many of you are up there?" he asked. The boy was instantly suspicious. His face had tightened up, stified in hostile surmise. "Why do you want to know?" he asked stiffly. Mallory groaned, lifted his hands in despair, turned sadly to Andrea. "You see what it is to be one of them?" he asked in mournful complaint. "Trust nobody. Think everyone is as twisted as. . . ." He broke off hurriedly, turned to the soldier again. "It's just that we don't want to have the same trouble every time we come in here," he explained. "We'll be back in Samos in a couple of days, and we've still another case of Moselle to work through. General Graebel keeps hisahspecial envoys well supplied. . . . It must be thirsty work up there in the sun. Come on, now, a bottle each. How many bottles?" The reassuring mention that they would be back again, the equally reassuring mention of Graebel's name, plus, probably, the attraction of the offer and his comrades' reaction if he told them he had refused it, tipped the pawn digital camera with no software balance, overcame scruples and suspicions. "There are only three of us," he said grudgingly. "Three it is," Mallory said cheerfully. "We'll bring you some Hock next time we return." He tilted his own bottle. "Prosit!" he said, an islander proud of airing his German, and then, more proudly still, "Auf Wiedersehen!" The boy murmured something in return. He stood hesitating for a moment, slightly shame-faced, then wheeled abruptly, walked off slowly along the river bank, clutching his bottles of Moselle. "So!" Mallory said thoughtfully. "There are only three of them. That should make things easier" "Well done, sir!" It was Stevens who interrupted, his voice warm, his face alive with admiration. "Jolly good show!" "Jolly good show!" Miller mimicked. He heaved his lanky length over the coaming of the engine hatchway. "'Good' be damned! I couldn't understand a gawddamned word, but for my money that rates an Oscar. That was terrific, boss!" "Thank you, one and all," Mallory murmured. "But I'm afraid the congratulations are a bit premature." The sudden chill in his voice struck at them, so that their eyes aligned along his pointing finger even before he went on. "Take a look," he said quietly. The young soldier had halted suddenly about two hundred yards along the bank, looked into the forest on his left in startled surprise, then dived in among the trees. For a moment the watchers on the boat could see another soldier, talking excitedly to the boy and gesticulating in the direction of their boat, and then both were gone, lost in the gloom of the forest. "That's torn it!" Mallory said softly. He turned away. "Right, that's enough. Back to where you were. It would look fishy if we ignored that incident altogether, but it would look a damned sight fishier if we paid too much attention to it. Don't let's appear to be holding a conference." Miller slipped down into the engine-room with Brown, and Stevens went back to the little for'ard cabin. Mallory and Andrea remained on deck, bottles in their hands. The rain had stopped now, completely, but the wind was still rising, climbing the scale with imperceptible steadiness, beginning to bend the tops of the tallest of the pines. Temporarily the bluff was affording them almost complete protection. Mallory deliberately shut his mind to what it must be like outside. They had to put out to seaSpandaus permittingand that was that. "What do you

But now at thirty years my hair is grey--

as he was in sleep. His eyes opened, his right hand searched for her body, his head turned and his smile began as he located her. Then he stretched, arms above his head, back arching toward her as he extended his legs and then on the top of his extension, suddenly retracted himself, drawing her against him, to complete a morning ritual which included the exercise of their intimate relationship. Each time, they seemed to discover something new about themselves and their responses. She particularly liked Larss capacity for invention, stimulating as it did heretofore unsuspected originalities in herself. As usual hunger roused them from these variations. Breakfast here is the heartiest meal, Lars said cheerfully, striding quickly for the catering unit. Youll like it. Killashandra saw that he had left the jammer behind him, and she followed him at a quick trot, holding the device up to distort anything else he might say. He laughed. Wed best leave them something to hear. A discussion of breakfast must be sufficiently innocuous. Killashandra settled in one of the chairs near the catering unit, swiveling her hand as she looked at the little jammer. If only some way could be found to mask that mineral residue in Optherians! Blank out the detector. You know, Killashandra said as they ate, sitting companionably together on the elegant seating unit, I simply cannot understand this concentration on one instrument albeit a powerful one but theyre wiping out more than ninety-nine percent of the FSPs musical traditions and repertoire, as well as stultifying talents and potential. I mean, your tenor is formidable! Lars shrugged, giving her a tolerant side glance. Everyone sings at least in the islands, they do. But you know how to sing. Lars cocked an eyebrow at her, still humoring what he felt was her excessive fascination with a minor ability. Everyone knows how to sing I dont mean just opening the mouth and shouting, Lars Dahl. I mean, projecting a voice, supporting it properly on the breath, phrasing the music, carrying the dynamic line forward. When did I do all that? When we did that impromptu duet. When you sang on the beach, when you did that magnificent duet from The Pearl Fishers. Of course. I studied voice for ten years. I fugi film digital camera She shut her mouth. Then why are you a crystal singer instead of one of these famous vocal artists? A surge of impotent fury, followed by a wave of regret, and then a totally incomprehensible loathing of Lars for reminding her so acutely of the interview with Maestro Valdi the moment that had changed her life rendered Killashandra speechless. Lars watched her, his mild curiosity turning to concern as he saw the emotions in her stormy eyes and face. He put a hand on her bare thigh. What did I say to distress you so? Nothing you said, Lars. She dismissed all that from consideration. It was over and done with. I had all the requirements to be a Stellar, except one. A voice. Ah, now. Lars pulled back in indignation. Im quite serious. Theres a flaw, a noticeable and unpleasant burr in the voice that would have limited me to secondary roles. Lars laughed now, his white teeth gleaming in his tanned faced, his eyes sparkling. And you, my beloved Sunny, he kissed her lightly, would never settle for being second in anything! Are you first among crystal singers, then? I dont do badly. Ive sung black crystal, which is the hardest to find and cut properly. In any event, there arent degrees among singers. One cuts to earn enough credit for the things one needs and wants. Now why wasnt she being totally honest with Lars? Why didnt she confess that the sole aim of most crystal singers was sufficient credit not to have to sing crystal to leave Ballybran for as long as possible? I wouldnt have thought crystal singers are so much like islanders, Lars surprised her by saying. Well, you cut for what you need and want, much as we fish or plant polly, but all we really need is available. Its not quite the same thing with crystal, Killashandra said slowly, glad she had been less than honest. Why disillusion Lars needlessly? On so many worlds, in so many minds, there were so many misconceptions about crystal singers, she had not realized how much a relief it was to find an unbiased world at least one unbiased with respect to her Guild. Cutting crystal seems more dangerous than fishing. He stroked her scarred hand. Or learning polly. Stick to fishing, Lars. Crystals hazardous to your health. Now, wed best apply ourselves to fulfill my Guild contract with these fardling fools. And maybe shake them out of their organic rut! They dressed and then

"O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son?

convoluted streamer. By this time I would have taken long odds that anyone suspicious enough to investigate would have found that tape perfectly genuine: probably, I thought bitterly, Bach's organ music, in keeping with Smallwood's late ecclesiastical nature. Still in silence, we watched Corazzini undo and fling away the false top of the recorder, but not before I had time to notice the padded spring clips on its undersidethe perfect hiding place for a couple of automatics: revealed now were controls and calibrated dials that bore no resemblance to those of a tape-recorder. Corazzini straightened and erected a hinged telescopic aerial, clamped a set of headphones to his ears, made two switches and started to turn a dial, at the same time watching a green magic eye similar to those found in tape-recorders and many modern radios. Faintly, but unmistakably, I could hear a steady whine coming from the earphones, a whine which altered in pitch and intensity as Corazzini turned the dial. When it reached its maximum strength, he turned his attention to a built-in alcohol compass about three inches in diameter. A few moments later he doffed the earphones and turned round, apparently satisfied. "Very strong, very clear," he announced to Small wood. "But there's too heavy a deviation factor from all the metal in the tractor and sledge. Back in two minutes. Your torch, Dr Mason." He walked away for about fifty yards, taking the machine with him: it was with intense chagrin that I realised that it was perfectly in keeping with all that had gone before that Corazzini had probably forgotten more about navigation than I was ever likely to know. He returned soon, consulted a small chartcorrecting for variation, no doubtthen grinned at Small wood. "It's them, all right. Perfect signal. Bearing 268." "Good." If Smallwood felt relieved or gratified at the news, no shadow of his feeling touched the thin immobile face. Their quiet certainty, their forethought, their foolproof organisation was dismaying, frightening. Now that I could see what manner of men they were it was unthinkable that they should have set themselves down in a vast featureless country such as this without some means of orientating themselves: what we had just seen in operation could only be a battery operated radio direction finder, and even to me, inexperienced though I was in such matters, it was obvious that Corazzini must have been taking a bearing on some continuous directional line-up signals transmitted photo uploading from my digital camera by a vessel, or vessels, off-shore: trawlers, probably, or some other inconspicuous type of fishing vessel. ... I would have been less than human had I not wanted to shake this absolute confidence. "You've miscalculated the hornet's nest you've stirred up. The Davis Strait, the coast of Greenland is alive with ships and planes. The scout planes of the carrier Triton will pick up every boat that's larger than a skiff. The trawlers will never get away with it: they won't get five miles." "They don't have to." Implicit in Corazzini's words was confirmation of the accuracy of my guess about trawlers. "There are such things as submarines. In fact there is one, not far from here." "You still won't" "Be quiet," Smallwood said coldly. He turned to Corazzini. "Two hundred and sixty-eight, ehdue west more or less. Distance?" Corazzini shrugged, said nothing: Smallwood beckoned to me. "We'll soon find it. That map, Dr Masonindicate our position, accurately." "You can go to hell," I said briefly. "I expected nothing else. However, I'm not blind and your clumsy attempts at concealment have done little to hide the growing attachment between yourself and the young lady here." I glanced quickly at Margaret, saw the faint colour beginning to stain the pale cheek and looked as quickly away. "I am prepared to shoot Miss Ross." I never doubted him. I knew he'd do it in an instant. I gave him our position, he asked for another map, asked Jackstraw to mark our position on the second, and compared the two. "They coincide," he nodded. "Fortunately for you." He studied the map briefly, then looked at Corazzini. "The Kangalak fjord, undoubtedly, at the foot of the Kangalak glacier. Approximately" "The Kangalak fjord," I interrupted. My voice was bitter. "Why the hell didn't you land there in the first place and save us all this?" "The plane captain deserved to die," Smallwood said obliquely. His smile was wintry. "I had instructed him to put down on the coast just north of the fjord where ourahfriends had reconnoitred a section of the ice-cap, three miles long and absolutely flat, that is the equal of the finest runway in Europe or America, and it wasn't until I saw the altimeter reading just before the crash that I realised he had deceived me." He made an impatient gesture and turned to

Colder thy kiss;

horror. "Aboard that thing?" Mallory nodded, smiling. "But that gawddamned ship is sinkin' already!" Miller protested. "What do you want stones for?" "Wait and see." Three hours later Miller saw. The caique was chugging steadily north over a glassy, windless sea, less than a mile off the coast of Turkey, when he mournfully finished lashing his blue battledress into a tight ball and heaved it regretfully over the side. Weighted by the heavy stone he had carried aboard, it was gone from sight in a second. Morosely he surveyed himself in the mirror propped up against the for'ard end of the wheelhouse. Apart from a deep violet sash wrapped round his lean middle and a fancifully embroidered waistcoat with its former glory mercifully faded, be was dressed entirely in black. Black lacing jackboots, black baggy trousers, black shirt and black jacket: even his sandy hair had been dyed to the same colour. He shuddered and turned away. "Thank Gawd the boys back home can't see me now!" he said feelingly. He looked critically at the others, dressed, with some minor variations, like himself. "Waal, mebbe I ain't quite so bad after all. . . . Just what is all this quick-change business for, boss?" "They tell me you've been behind the German lines twice, once as a peasant, once as a mechanic." Mallory heaved his own ballasted uniform over the side. "Well, now you see what the well-dressed Navaronian wears." "The double change, I meant Once in the plane, and now." "Oh, I see. Army khaki and naval whites in Alex., blue battledress in Casteirosso and now Greek clothes? Could have beenalmost certainly weresnoopers in Alex. or Casteirosso or Major Rutledge's island. And we've changed from launch to plane to M.T.B. to caique. Covering our tracks, Corporal. We just can't take any chances." Miller nodded, looked down at the clothes sack at his feet, wrinkled his brows in puzzlement, stooped and dragged out the white clothing that had caught his eye. He held up the long, voluminous clothes for inspection. "To be used when passing through the local cemeteries, I suppose." He was heavily ironic. "Disguised as ghosts." "Camouflage," Mallory explained succinctly. "Snowsmocks." "What!" "Snow. That white stuff. There are some pretty high mountains in Navarone, and olympus digital camera reliability we may have to take to them. Sosnowsmocks." Miller looked stunned. Wordlessly he stretched his length on the deck, pillowed his head and closed his eyes. Mallory grinned at Andrea. "Picture of a man getting his full quota of sunshine before battling with the Arctic wastes. . . . Not a bad idea. Maybe you should get some sleep, too. I'll keep watch for a couple of hours." For five hours the caique continued on its course parallel to the Turkish coast, slightly west of north and rarely more than two miles off-shore. Relaxed and warm in the still kindly November sun, Mallory sat wedged between the bulwarks of the blunt bows, his eyes ceaselessly quartering sky and horizon. Amidships, Andrea and Miller lay asleep. Casey Brown still defied all attempts to remove him from the engine-room. Occasionally very occasionallyhe came up for a breath of fresh air, but the intervals between his appearances steadily lengthened as he concentrated more and more on the aged Kelvin engine, regulating the erratic drip-fed lubrication, constantly adjusting the air intake: an engineer to his finger-tips, he was unhappy about that engine: he was drowsy, too, and headachythe narrow hatchway gave hardly any ventilation at all. Alone in the wheelhousean unusual feature in so tiny a caiqueLieutenant Andy Stevens watched the Turkish coast slide slowly by. Like Mallory's, his eyes moved ceaselessly, but not with the same controlled wandering. They shifted from the coast to the chart: from the chart to the islands up ahead off the port bow, islands whose position and relation to each other changed continually and deceptively, islands gradually lifting from the sea and hardening in definition through the haze of blue refraction: from the islands to the old alcohol compass swinging almost imperceptibly on rusted gimbals, and from the compass back to the coast again. Occasionally, he peered up into the sky, or swung a quick glance through a 180-degree sweep of the horizon. But one thing his eyes avoided all the time. The chipped, fly-blown mirror had been hung up in the wheelhouse again, but it was as if his eyes and the mirror were of opposite magnetic poles: he could not bring himself to look at it. His forearms ached. He had been spelled at the wheel twice, but still they ached, abominably: his lean, tanned hands were ivory-knuckled on the cracked wheel. Repeatedly, consciously, he tried to relax, to ease the tension that was bunching up

But somebody or other rummaging

Droves of our destroyers and M.T.B.s and gunboats move into the Aegean at dusk: the destroyers retire to the South before dawn, the small boats usually lie up in isolated islands creeks. But we can't stop them from getting across. They'll be there Saturday or Sundayand synchronise their landings with the first of the airborne troops: they've scores of Junkers 52s waiting just outside Athens. Kheros won't last a couple of days." No one could have listened to Jensen's carefully casual voice, his abnormal matter-of-factness and not have believed him. Mallory believed him. For almost a minute he stared down at the sheen of the sea, at the faery tracery of the stars shimmering across its darkly placid surface. Suddenly he swung around on Jensen. "But the Navy, sir! Evacuation! Surely the Navy" "The Navy," Jensen interrupted heavily, "is not keen. The Navy is sick and tired of the Eastern Med. and the Aegean, sick and tired of sticking out its long-suffering neck and having it regularly chopped offand all for sweet damn all. We've had two battleships wrecked, eight cruisers out of commissionfour of them sunk and over a dozen destroyers gone. . . . I couldn't even start to count the number of smaller vessels we've lost. And for what? I've told youfor sweet damn all! Just so's our High Command can play round-and-round- the-rugged-rocks and who's the-king-of-the-castle with their opposite numbers in Berlin. Great fun for all concernedexcept, of course, for the thousand or so sailors who've been drowned in the course of the game, the ten thousand or so Tommies and Anzacs and Indians who suffered and died on these same islandsand died without knowing why." Jensen's hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, his mouth tight-drawn and bitter. Mallory was surprised, shocked almost, by the vehemence, the depth of feeling; it was so completely out of character. . . . Or perhaps it was in character, perhaps Jensen knew a very great deal indeed about what went on on the inside. "Twelve hundred men, you said, sir?" Mallory asked quietly. "You said there were twelve hundred men on Kheros?" Jensen flickered a glance at him, looked away again. "Yes. Twelve hundred men." Jensen sighed. "You're right, laddie, of course, you're right. I'm just talking off the top of my head. Of course we can't leave them there. The Navy will do its damnedest. What's two or three more destroyerssorry, boy, sorry, there I go again. . . . Now best priced digital camera listen, and listen carefully. "Taking 'em off will have to be a night operation. There isn't a ghost of a chance in the daytimenot with two-three hundred Stukas just begging for a glimpse of a Royal Naval destroyer. It'll have to be destroyers transports and tenders are too slow by half. And they can't possibly go northabout the northern tip of the Leradesthey'd never get back to safety before daylight. It's too long a trip by hours." "But the Lerades is a pretty long string of Islands," Mallory ventured. "Couldn't the destroyers go through" "Between a couple of them? Impossible." Jensen shook his head. "Mined to hell and back again. Every single channel. You couldn't take a dinghy through." "And the Maidos-Navarone channel. Stiff with mines also, I suppose?" "No, that's a clear channel. Deep wateryou can't moor mines in deep water." "So that's the route you've got to take, isn't it, sir? I mean, they're Turkish territorial waters on the other side and we" "We'd go through Turkish territorial waters to-morrow, and in broad daylight, if it would do any good," Jensen said flatly. "The Turks know it and so do the Germans. But all other things being equal, the Western channel is the one we're taking. It's a clearer channel, a shorter routeand it doesn't involve any unnecessary international complications." "All other things being equal?" "The guns of Navarone." Jensen paused for a long time, then repeated the words, slowly, expressionlessly, as one would repeat the name of some feared and ancient enemy. "The guns of Navarone. They make everything equaL They cover the northern entrances to both channels. We could take the twelve hundred men off Kheros to-nightif we could silence the guns of Navarone." Mallory sat silent, said nothing. He's coming to it now, he thought. "These guns are no ordinary guns," Jensen went on quietly. "Our naval experts say they're about nine-inch rifle barrels. I think myself they're more likely a version of the 210 mm. 'crunch' guns that the Germans are using in Italyour soldiers up there hate and fear those guns more than anything on earth. A dreadful weaponshell extremely slow in flight and damnably accurate. Anyway," he went on grimly, "whatever they were they were good enough to dispose of the Sybaris in five minutes flat."

Nor yet have ministers slain,

rescuer for she had not required rescue, and she had requested his continued presence as a safeguard against further physical violence from any source on Optheria. He had not premeditated any interference on her contractual obligation to her Guild for he had not only assisted her in repairing the damaged manual, her preemptive assignment, but he had also provided her with conclusive evidence to resolve the secondary assignment. He therefore restated his innocence. After Lars gave his testimony, Killashandra was called to the chair and had to exercise the greatest degree of control to suppress signs of the stress she felt. It didnt help to know that the sensitive psych equipment would record even the most minute tremors and uncertainties of its subject. That was its function and the results which the Monitor then analyzed against the psychological profile of each witness. Objectively she was pleased that her voice didnt quaver as she supported Larss testimony on each count, managing to publicly absolve him from felonious assault as he was, in fact, acting even when he abducted her in her best interests, contractually and personally. She kept her answers concise and unemotional. Subjectively she had never been so terrified of any experience. And the equipment would record that as well. Trag and Olav had their turns in the witness chair. Each time the subliminal manipulation was mentioned, there was a significant pause in the flow of questions, though there was no hint of how this information was being received and analyzed by the Judicial Monitor, since, in point of law, this part of everyones testimony was irrelevant to the case at hand. When Olav resumed his seat between Trag and Lars, the Bailiff approached the screen. They could all see the activity of the terminal but the pattern of its flashing lights disclosed nothing. Killashandra, holding Larss hand, jumped an inch above her chair when the contralto voice began its summation. With the exception of felonious assault, the charges against the accused, Lars Dahl, are dismissed. Killashandra swallowed. Criminal intent is not apparent but disciplinary action is required by law. Lars Dahl, you are remanded into the custody of the Judicial Branch, pending disposition of the disciplinary action. You are further remanded for examination of the charge of subliminal manipulation against the Elders of Optheria. Olav Dahl, you are seconded to assist these investigations, which have now been initiated. Trag Morfane, Killashandra Ree, have you anything to polaroid digital camera pdc 3070 add to your recorded testimonies on the charge of subliminal manipulation by the Elders of Optheria? Having already been as candid as possible, neither crystal singer could expand on the information already on record. And Killashandra did not quite understand the matter of disciplinary action for Lars and the remand orders. Then this session of the Grand Felony Court of Regulus Sector Federation is closed. The traditional crack of wood against wood ended the hearing. Perplexed by the legal formulas, Killashandra turned to Lars and his father. Are you free, or what? she demanded. Im not quite sure, Lars said with a nervous laugh. It cant mean much. Everything else was dismissed, wasnt it? He looked to Olav and was sobered by his fathers solemn expression. He has been remanded, the Bailiff explained kindly, taking Lars by the arm. I interpret the judgment to mean that the Court has dismissed all charges but Lars Dahls physical assault on you in the matter of your abduction. Disciplinary action is always short term. On the second remand charge, the Court requires further discussion of the allegations about the use of subliminal conditioning by the Optherian government. If these are proved correct, then it is likely that the disciplinary action will be suspended. I can give you hard copy of the precedents involved, indeed of the entire trial, if you wish. When Lars nodded a perplexed affirmation, Then I shall program them for your quarters. If you gentlemen will come with me? A panel at the back of the seating area opened and it was toward this that Funadormi gestured Lars and his father. Come with you? Lars cried, trying to break from the Bailiffs grip. Shock and surprise briefly immobilized Killashandra and before she could make a move to reach Lars, the Bailiff, securely holding her lover, had him nearly to the open door. Wait! Please wait! she screamed, falling over the chairs in her haste. You two have been dismissed. Justice has been served! Arrangements for your transport have been made and the ground vehicle programmed to take you to the appropriate site. But Lars! Killashandras cry of protest was made to the immense back of the Bailiff which was disappearing through the aperture, totally eclipsing Lars. Olav hurried anxiously after, adding his protests. Lars Dahl! she screamed,

'Time is, Time was, Time's past': a chymic treasure

to herself, and when I bent to listen she was saying in a strange, wondering voice: "Helene. She called me 'Helene'." I stared at her as if she were mad, glanced down at the dead woman at my feet then gazed unseeingly after the receding lights of the Citroen until both the lights and the sound had faded and vanished into the snow-filled darkness of the night. CHAPTER ELEVENFriday 6 P.M.Saturday 12.15 P.M. The white hell of that night, the agony of the bitter dreadful hours that followedand God only knows how many hours these were -is a memory that will never die. How many hours did we stagger and lurch after that tractor like drunk or dying mensix hours, eight, ten? We didn't know, we shall never know. Time as an independent system of measurement ceased to exist: each second was an interminable unit of suffering, of freezing, of exhausted marching, each minute an son where the fire in our aching leg muscles fought with the ice-cold misery of hands and feet and faces for domination in our minds, each hour an eternity which we knew could never end. Not one of us, I am sure, expected to live through that night. The thoughts, the emotions of these hours I could never afterwards recall. Chagrin there was, the most bitter I have ever known, an overwhelming mortification and self-condemnation that I had all along been deceived with such childish ease, that I had been powerless to offer any hindrance or resistance to the endless resourcefulness of that brilliant little man. And then I would think of Mrs Dansby-Gregg, and of Margaret bound and hostage and afraid and looking at Smallwood in the dim light of that lurching tractor cabin, looking at Smallwood and the gun in Smallwood's hand, and with that thought anger would flood in to supplant the chagrin, a consuming hatred and a fury that flamed throughout my entire being, but even that anger wasn't all exclusive: it couldn't be, not so long as fear, a fear such as I had never before known, was the dominating factor in my mind. And it was. It was, too, I should think, in Zagero's mind. He hadn't spoken a word since Mrs Dansby-Gregg had died, had just flung himself uncaringly, ruthlessly, into what had to be done. Head bowed, he plodded on like an automaton. I wondered how many times he must have regretted that impetuous slip of the tongue when he had betrayed to Smallwood the fact that Solly Levin was his father. And Jackstraw was as silent as we were, non-committal, speaking only when he had to, keeping his thoughts strictly to canon digital camera driver ixus himself. I wondered if he was blaming me for what had happened but I didn't think so, Jackstraw's mind just didn't work that way. I could guess what he was thinking, I knew the explosive temper that slumbered under that placid exterior. Had we met an unarmed Smallwood and Corazzini then, I do not think we would have stopped short of killing him with our hands. I suppose, too, that we were all three of us exhausted as we had never been before, frost-bitten, bleeding, thirsty and steadily weakening from lack of food. I say 'suppose', because logic and reason tell me that these things must have been so. But if they were I do not think they touched the minds of any of us that night. We were no longer ourselves, we were outside ourselves. Our bodies were but machines to serve the demands of our minds, and our minds so consumed with anxiety and anger that there was no place left for any further thought. We were following the tractor. We could, I suppose, have turned back in the hope of stumbling across Hillcrest and his men. I knew Hillcrest well enough to know that he would know that those who had taken over our tractorhe had no means of knowing who they were, for all he knew Zagero might have suddenly overpowered uswould never dare make for Uplavnik but would almost certainly head for the coast. The likelihood was that Hillcrest, too, would head for the Kangalak fjordtogether with a small bay beside it, the Kangalak fjord was the only break, the only likely rendezvous in a hundred miles of cliff-bound coastand he could go there arrow-straight: on board his Sno-Cat he had a test prototype of a new, compact and as yet unmarketed Arma gyroscope specially designed for land use which had proved to have such astonishing accuracy that navigation on the ice-cap, as a problem, had ceased to exist for him. But, even should he be heading towards the coast, our chances of meeting him in that blizzard did not exist, and if we once passed them by we would have been lost for ever. Better by far to head for the coast, where some patrolling ship or plane might just possibly pick us upif we ever got there. Besides, I knew that both Jackstraw and Zagero felt exactly as I didunder a pointless but overpowering compulsion to follow Smallwood and Corazzini until'we dropped in our tracks. And the truth was that we couldn't have gone any other way even had we wished to. When Smallwood had dropped us off we had been fairly into the steadily

To-day is condemned to die.

It was Jackstraw who heard it firstit was always Jackstraw, whose hearing was an even match for his phenomenal eyesight, who heard things first. Tired of having my exposed hands alternately frozen, I had dropped my book, zipped my sleeping-bag up to the chin and was drowsily watching him carving figurines from a length of inferior narwhal tusk when his hands suddenly fell still and he sat quite motionless. Then, unhurriedly as always, he dropped the piece of bone into the coffee-pan that simmered gently by the side of our oil-burner stovecurio collectors paid fancy prices for what they "O have they parishes burnt?" he said, imagined to be the dark ivory of fossilised elephant tusksrose and put his ear to the ventilation shaft, his eyes remote in the unseeing gaze of a man lost in listening. A couple of seconds were enough. "Aeroplane," he announced casually. "Aeroplane!" I propped myself up on an elbow and stared at him. "Jackstraw, you've been hitting the methylated spirits again." "Indeed, no, Dr Mason." The blue eyes, so incongruously at