Duncan Kyle - Whiteout!

We went back to the bar then, and the steward made Martinis, with everything coming from a big freezer behind the bar : glasses, bottles, ice, shaker. The sergeants were impressive people. I asked Vernon how long he'd been at Hundred. He said it was his third tour of duty.

'Third?' I said. 'I thought people couldn't wait to get away.'

'No, sir, it's not like that. I enjoy my duty here. I wanted to come back.'

'And will you again ?'

He frowned. 'I better explain, sir. A little over two weeks back, we lost a man. Only a kid really, but I reckon it was my fault. No, sir, I won't be coming back this time. I'm quitting the army.'

The master sergeant said, 'Nobody blames him, excepting him. Major Smales told him that, I told him, everybody told him.'

'These things happen,' I said uncomfortably. I liked Vernon. He seemed a solid citizen, dependable and strong. 'What will you do when you leave the army?'

'Home to Wichita,' he said. 'Look around. Find some job. I'll be okay. But let's talk about something else, huh ? Tell us about that air-cushion vehicle of yours.'

I did, and with some relief. The two of them were deeply aware of the need for faster transport over the icecap, knew the problems and gave me as much information as I gave them. After I left the sergeants' club I went over to the radio room to see if there was any news of the Swing's progress. There wasn't; the last contact had been atmidnightand the radio operator suspected the snow train had run into a white-out, which would make contact unlikely and almost certainly stop the train.

'I thought nothing stopped it.'

'Just white-outs, sir. Bad one, you get just no visibility at all. Air's full of minute ice particles and it looks like milk. No sky, no horizon, no ground. You just have to wait till it goes away.'

'How long does that take?'

'Minutes, hours, days, who knows ? Then you get a wind and pfft, it's over.'

I went in to lunch. Neither Kelleher nor Barney Smales was present, but the silent young officer I'd sat beside the previous day was there.

'May I join you?'

'Surely. Guess I owe you some kind of apology.'

'No,' I said.

He made an effort to be friendly, but his heart wasn't in it. He apologized again and said he couldn't seem to throw off the gloom.

'Can't the doctor help?'

'Happy pills ? Gets a whole lot worse when they wear off, so I stopped them. Sounds crazy, I know, but what I really want is a good long walk.'

'Difficult.'

'Impossible. But I guess it's kind of an id ée fixe.Something in my head says if I can take the walk, it will be okay. But I can't, so round I go in circles.' He smiled faintly, embarrassed at the revelation. I said, 'It's claustrophobia, really.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Everybody's got it, more or less.'

'I know that, too. It's just. . , you know what happened?'

I shook my head.

'They were out at the seismology hut, that's around three hundred yards out on the cap. There was a sudden bad phase and they were trapped three days in there. When it cleared a little they started back and hit a white-out. Three hundred goddam yards and they hit a white-out ! Daylight, clear air, but it just fell on them. Didn't last but a few hours, either, but somehow Charlie got loose from the guide-line. Sergeant Vernon, he's a real good man, he stayed there an hour, damn near froze to death; he shouted and he damn well waited, but Charlie was gone! Just vanished right into the cap.'

I said, 'Vernon feels badly. You know he's leaving the army?'

'Yeah, I know.'

When we'd finished eating, I said, 'Since you can't go for a walk, how about exercise of a different kind? Ping-pong.'

He started to say no thanks, changed his mind and said, 'Why not ?' and we played for more than an hour, working up a sweat in the heated recreation hut. At first he seemed to have difficulty in keeping his mind on the game, but after a while the old American hatred of being beaten at any game began to assert itself, and he played a good deal better, the lines disappearing from his brow as healthy perspiration gathered on it. Ping-pong seems a pretty feeble palliative, but at least when we'd finished he wasn't any worse and may have been a fraction better.

Afterwards I had a shower, then lay for a while on my bed, reading. I was bored, frustrated by inactivity and conscious of not belonging. Once my TK4 arrived, I'd have a purpose and things to do; meanwhile I was something of a nuisance, a spare body hanging around asking tourist-type questions and wasting time. And if inactivity could bore me so quickly, what must it be like for some of the others, Doc Kirton, for instance, who had to endure it for a whole six-month tour? I decided I'd go and alleviate his boredom and my own, and perhaps find out what kind of bacteria polar bears carried around, so I put on all the layers of clothing and walked round to the hospital. Kirton's outer office was empty, but there was a red light glowing on the door of the operating theatre. He must have heard me come in, though, because he called, 'Who is it ?'

I told him and he called back, 'I got something to show you, but I'm busy right now. See you later.'

So I left. It might have saved a lot of trouble if I'd just sat in his office and waited. Instead I went to the library and got a couple of books, then returned to my room to read. In fact I dozed off, awakening just in time for dinner, and after dinner there were a couple of quick drinks and then the evening's film, the Burton/Taylor Cleopatra, which seemed to go on for ever. Just before I finally went to sleep that night, I remember thinking that for the first time since my arrival, nothing unpleasant had happened that day. The damaged generator was apparently in working order again, the reactor was due to go critical tomorrow. It was a reassuring thought to sleep on. Unfortunately, it wasn't true.

On the way to a late breakfast next morning, I called in at the radio room, hoping for news of the Swing, but there was none; they were still out of radio contact. The operator smiled at my anxiety. 'Don't worry about it; the Swing always makes it. Weather's good, they're quick. Weather's bad, they're slow. But they sure as hell get here.'

I nodded, thanked him, and left. It looked like being another fragmented, tedious day and I really wasn't looking forward to it. The stuffiness in my room had given me a rough mouth and a dull headache and I decided that after I'd eaten, I'd go and get a couple of aspirins from Kirton. Everybody else must have breakfasted earlier. The result was that I ate alone and consequently quickly. I stayed at the table long enough to smoke a cigarette, then put on all the wrappings again and left for the hospital. Kirton wasn't there and I debated rummaging around for aspirin in his cupboards, but decided against it in case what I took turned out to be cascara, or something. So I went to the Officers' Club and drank coffee and read Time magazine while the headache got worse. An hour later, Kirton still hadn't shown up at the Officers'

Club and, when I returned to the hospital, he wasn't there either. Hoping the cool air that blew along Main Street would clear my head, I took a stroll towards the command trench. But I never got there. At the far end of Main Street, where the tunnel led up on to the cap, a group of men were standing beside the bulldozer. I walked towards them and, as I came closer, saw they were looking at something on the ground. I couldn't see what it was, because there were too many people; I just kept walking until I reached them. About five seconds later, I was doubled over by the wall, vomiting my breakfast back, retching until I thought my boots would come up.

A single glance had been enough to tell me what had happened : a man had been ground to pulp under the fifty-six-inch steel track of the bulldozer, and all that was left was a ghastly smear of blood, flesh and ripped clothing.