Alistair MacLean - Ice Station Zebra

"Well," I said to Swanson, "here's one ready to go."

"No doubt about that," Jolly said briskly. He bent over the other, flolton, for some seconds, then straightened and shook his head. "A very sick man, Commander, very sick. I wouldn't care to take the responsibility of moving him."

"I might be forced to take the responsibility myself," Swanson said bluntly. "Let's have another opinion on this." His tone and words, I thought, could have been more diplomatic and conciliatory; but if there were a couple of murderers aboard the «Dolphin», there was a thirty-three and a third per cent chance that Jolly was one of them, and Swanson wasn't forgetting it for a moment.

I gave Jolly an apologetic half-shrug, bent over Bolton, and examined him as best I could with only one hand available for the task. I straightened and said, "Jolly's right. He is pretty sick. But I think he might just stand the transfer to the ship."

"'Might just' is not quite the normally accepted basis for deciding the treatment of a patient," Jolly objected.

"I know it's not. But the circumstances are hardly normal, either."

"I'll take the responsibility," Swanson said. "Dr. Jolly, I'd be most grateful if you would supervise the transport of those two men back to the ship. I'll let you have as many men as you want right away."

Jolly protested some more, then gave in with good grace. He supervised the transfer, and very competent he was about it, too. I remained out there a little longer, watching Rawlings and some others dismantling heaters and lights and rolling up cables, and after the last of them was gone and I was alone, I made my way around to the tractor shed.

The broken shaft of the knife was still in the tank of the tractor. But not the gun and not the two magazines. Those were gone. And whoever had taken them, it hadn't been Dr. Jolly; he hadn't been out of my sight for two consecutive seconds between the time he'd left the «Dolphin» and the time of his return to it.

At three o'clock that afternoon we dropped down below the ice and headed south for the open sea.

The afternoon and evening passed quickly and pleasantly enough. Closing our hatches and dropping down from our hardly won foothold in that lead had had a symbolic significance at least as important as the actual fact of leaving itself. The thick ceiling of ice closing over the hull of the «Dolphin» was a curtain being drawn across the eye of the mind. We had severed all physical connection with Drift Ice Station Zebra, a home of the dead that might continue to circle slowly around the Pole for mindless centuries to come; and with the severance had come an abrupt diminution of the horror and the shock that had hung pall-like over the ship and its crew for the past twenty-four hours. A dark door had swung to behind us, and we had turned our backs on it. Mission accomplished, duty done, we were heading for home again, and the' sudden upsurge of relief and happiness among the crew to be on their way again, their high anticipation of port and leave, was an almost tangible thing. The mood of the ship was close to that of light-hearted gaiety. But there was no gaiety in my mind, and no peace: I was leaving too much behind. Nor could there be any peace in the minds of Swanson and Hansen, of Rawlings and Zabrinski: they knew we were carrying a killer aboard, a killer who had killed many times. Dr. Benson knew also, but for the moment Dr. Benson did not count: he still had not regained consciousness, and I held the very unprofessional hope that he wouldn't for some time to come. In the twilit world of emergence from coma, a man can start babbling and say all too much.

Some of the Zebra survivors had asked if they could look around the ship and Swanson agreed. In light of what I had told him in his cabin that morning, he must have agreed very reluctantly indeed, but no trace of this reluctance showed in his calmly smiling face. To have refused their request would have been rather a churlish gesture, for all the secrets of the «Dolphin» were completely hidden from the eye of the layman. But it wasn't good manners that made Swanson give his consent: refusing a reasonable request could have been responsible for making someone very suspicious indeed.

Hansen took them around the ship and I accompanied them, less for the exercise or interest involved than for the opportunity it gave me to keep a very close eye indeed on their reactions to their tour. We made a complete tour of the ship, missing only the reactor room, which no one could visit anyway, and the inertial-navigation room, which had been barred to me also. As we moved around I watched them all, and especially two of them, as closely as it is possible to watch anyone without making him aware of your observation, and I learned precisely what I had expected to learn — nothing. I'd been crazy even to hope I'd learn anything; our friend with the gun was wearing a mask that had been forged into shape and riveted into position. But I'd had to do it anyway; playing in this league, I couldn't pass up the one chance in a miffion.

Supper over, I helped Jolly as best I could with his evening surgery. Whatever else Jolly was, he was a damned good doctor. Quickly and efficiently he checked and where necessary rebandaged the walking cases, examined and treated Benson and Folsom, then asked me to come right aft with him to the nucleonics laboratory in the stern room, which had been cleared of deck gear to accommodate the four other bed patients, the Harrington twins, Brownell, and Bolton. The sick bay itself had only two cots for invalids, and Benson and Folsom had those.

Bolton, despite Jolly's dire predictions, hadn't suffered a relapse because of his transfer from the hut to the ship — which had been due largely to Jolly's extremely skillful and careful handling of the patient and the stretcher into which he had been strapped. Bolton, in fact, was conscious now and complaining of severe pain in his badly burned right forearm. Jolly removed the burn covering. Bolton's arm was a mess, all right, no skin left worth speaking of, showing an angry violent red between areas of suppuration. Different doctors have different ideas as to the treatment of burns: Jolly favored a salve-coated aluminum foil which he smoothed across the entire burn area, then lightly bandaged in place. He then gave him a pain-killing injection and some sleeping pills and briskly informed the enlisted man who was keeping watch that he was to be informed immediately of any change or deterioration in Bolton's condition. A brief inspection of the three others, a changed bandage here and there, and he was through for the night.

So was I. For two nights now I had had practically no sleep; what little had been left for me the previous night had been ruined by the pain in my left hand. I was exhausted. When I got to my cabin, Hansen was already asleep and the engineer officer gone.

I didn't need any of Jolly's sleeping pills that night.

I awoke at two o'clock. I was sleep-drugged, still exhausted, and felt as if I had been in bed about five minutes. But I awoke in an instant and in that instant I was fully awake.

Only a dead man wouldn't have stirred. The racket issuing from the squawk box just above Hansen's bunk was appalling, a high-pitched, shrieking, atonic whistle, two-toned and altering pitch every half-second, it drilled stiletto-like against my cringing eardrums. A banshee in its death agonies could never have hoped to compete with that racket.

Hansen already had his feet on the deck and was pulling on clothes and shoes in desperate haste. I had never thought to see that slow-speaking laconic Texan in such a tearing hurry, but I was seeing it now.

"What in hell's name is the matter?" I demanded. I had to shout to make myself heard above the shrieking of the alarm whistle.