Duncan Kyle - Whiteout!

So nothing.

So two men, Kirton and Carson, were now missing for totally unexplained reasons. And, presumably, were dead.

At last I said, a little wearily, 'Look, it's not your business and it's not mine. We have facts now. It's criminal not to tell Coveney. At least he can take action out in the open.'

Kelleher said 'No,' with sudden vehemence.

'Why not?'

'Because whoever the hell it is who's doing all this, he doesn't know what we got now. The minute we tell Coveney, the whole place finds out.'

'And maybe he gets caught?'

'Sure. More likely he doesn't. There's still no solid information.'

I stared at him in sudden anger. 'So we do nothing?'

Kelleher stretched. 'No. There's one little thing I'd like to try.'

'What?'

He hesitated, then bent to pick up the bundle of sheets. 'Leave it with me, Harry. I'll be in the reactor trench.'

'You're not going to tell me?'

He was already moving to the door. 'Sure I'll tell you. But later, okay? Give me a little time. And cover for me if Coveney comes in.'

I watched the door close behind him, annoyed at what I saw as wholly unnecessary secrecy. Allen slept peacefully in the bed Kelleher had occupied and I thought with irritation that if Coveney did arrive and saw a black face where he'd expected a white one, covering-up would be rather less easy than Kelleher had made it sound. Not that that there was much to be done about it ; there were no spare beds. For a while, I sat smoking in Kirton's comfortable chair, recovering my temper. The place was quiet now and I realized I was tired, and pulled out a desk drawer, put my feet up and let my eyes close. I'd no intention of sleeping, and didn't, because my brain, active if ineffectual, insisted on carrying out a review of events. Pointlessly, as ever, and destructive, too, because in my experience physical comfort demands mental comfort as a precondition and my futilely busy brain kept me shifting in the chair, so that the cycle of irritation and frustration completed itself and I couldn't relax at all. A couple of times I went over to look at Allen merely for the sake of something to do, and the third time I succeeded in barking my right shin on the open desk drawer and hopped about on one leg for a few seconds, swearing. As I slammed the drawer shut, it occurred to me that a search of Kirton's desk, if it achieved nothing else, would help to pass the time.

The loose-leaf notebook wasn't exactly hidden, but there were papers and folders on top of it. What struck me was the handwritten title on the front: Studies in Discomfort. When I opened it and began to read, I realized after a while that Kirton had begun it with the intention of producing a paper for some medical journal or other on the way men behaved within the difficult parameters of Camp Hundred. Then the content seemed to change style, becoming mildly humorous rather than gravely academic. Clearly he'd abandoned the serious project and was merely amusing himself. Later came another change. There were half a dozen small character sketches, none more than a single handwritten page in length. No names or ranks were mentioned, nor even specific jobs. All the same, the first one was inevitably and unmistakably Barney Smales, and though a note of Kirton's at the beginning of the notebook said he would avoid psychological jargon, a marginal note on Smales's profile said 'manic?' I continued reading, recognizing nobody else, until I'd finished the notes. But I didn't close the notebook; instead I turned back to profile four: Mr Chameleon Constant.

'It took me a long time,' Kirton had written, 'to realize that the man I encountered was not the man others saw. Most of us, in early life, make some kind of decision about the front we want to present to the world, and then simply go on developing it. Chameleon Constant goes one better, or perhaps six better. His game, and I'm certain it is a war game for him, lies in presenting marginally different pictures of himself to everybody he meets. He's Jekyll and Hyde and a few more, including traces of Einstein and Svengali, and there are times when I have to restrain myself from going to watch him at work. I believe he knows I know about him because very occasionally he'll give me a glance that's almost conspiratorial. Other people's opinions of him vary ludicrously, from "the worst bastard I ever met in my life", to "as near total decency as any man is likely to get". What's so strange is that he seems to get away with it all. In some extraordinary way he doesn't get talked about. He came to see me the first time about another man who seemed to be worried and depressed. Would I have a look at him? When I saw the man, he was certainly worried and depressed and said the reason was that Mr C.C, w as on his back. Specifically how ? Impossible to pin down. C.C, just radiated hatred and threat. I gave him some anti-depressants and when I saw C.C, again, told him what I'd done,but not the reason and that was the first time I saw the conspiratorial glance. I made a note to investigate. After that I mentioned his name to a few individuals, but never to groups, and the puzzling picture began to emerge. Everybody said something different. What it all comes down to, I suppose, is some notion he's got of total superiority. Trouble is, I suspect it's not unfounded. And I sometimes think that, given different circumstances, West Point or Harvard, C.C, might by now be either General of the Army or President of the United States. One of these days I'm going to get him interviewed, one at a time, by some high-grade psychiatrists, because he'll not only baffle the be-Jesus out of them ; he'll have them fighting in groups when they try to agree on what he is. Meanwhile, I keep quiet about it because I want to go on observing.'

I read it a third time, fascinated and wondering, and looking now for clues. Could this be a portrait of the killer? Certainly it could, but the damn thing was so worded it didn't even hint at Chameleon Constant's identity, or even his rank or age. And then there was that curious reference to Einstein. I had an impulse to awaken Allen and ask whether there were any mathematical geniuses around the place, but if Kirton had been right, Allen's impression of the man might well be something very different. Still, I could try it on Kelleher. I glanced at my watch. It was two o'clock in the morning and, with luck, few people would be about; so I ought to be able to get to the reactor trench unchallenged. There was a possibility - no, more than that, a probability - that Coveney would still be awake, and perhaps prowling, but I'd simply have to take a chance on that; the combination of my general itchiness, Kelleher's secrecy and Kirton's character sketch was too much to keep to myself.

Since I'd last been in Main Street, the power voltage had obviously been reduced, and some of the lights were out. I walked steadily along, grateful for the lower lighting. Even if I walked smack into Coveney, he'd be hard put to recognize me unless we were both directly beneath one of the roof lights. But I didn't walk into Coveney. What I walked into, with astonishing suddenness, was total darkness. Without warning,without even a preliminary flicker, all the lights went out. I stopped in mid-stride, thought about it, and moved to the snow wall, calculating that the fourth trench on the right housed the reactor and that I could feel my way along until I reached it. I'd gone about twenty yards and passed the first trench-opening, my mind full of what might have gone wrong with the diesel generators, when I heard the soft crunch of footsteps. I stood, listening. They were coming towards me, moving fast, and I could hear a man breathing, too, with the effort of running.

I made a decision quickly - and wrongly - and didn’t move out to tackle him, reasoning that it was somebody from the diesel shed on his way to get help. A few seconds later he was well beyond me and I knew how wrong the decision had been, because all of a sudden there was light again: but this time, it was the flickering glow of firelight, and it came from the diesel trench!