alistairmaclean.icestationzebra-第41部分

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hattering。　I　thawed　out　under　the　big　electric　heaters　until　I　was　only　half　frozen；　then　I　picked　up　my　flashlight　and　moved　out　again　into　the　wind　and　the　cold　and　the　dark。　I　was　a　sucker　for　punishment；　that　was　for　sure。
　 In　the　next　twenty　minutes　I　made　half　a　dozen　plete　Circuits　of　the　camp；　moving　a　few　yards　farther　out　with　each　circuit。　I　must　have　walked　over　a　mile　altogether　and　that　was　all　I　had　for　it；　just　the　walk　and　a　slight　touch　of　frostbite　high　up　on　my　cheekbones；　the　only　part　of　my　face　other　than　my　eyes　exposed　to　that　bitter　cold。　I　knew　I　had　frostbite；　for　my　skin　had　suddenly　ceased　to　feel　cold　any　more　and　was　quite　dead　to　the　touch。　Enough　was　enough；　and　I　had　a　hunch　that　I　was　wasting　my　time；　anyway。　I　headed　back　to　the　camp。
　 I　passed　between　the　meteorological　hut　and　the　lab　and　was　just　level　with　the　eastern　end　of　the　bunkhouse　when　I　sensed　as　much　as　saw　something　odd　out　of　the　corner　of　my　eye。　I　steadied　my　flashlight　beam　on　the　east　wall　…and　peered　closely　at　the　sheath　of　ice　that　had　been　deposited　there　over　the　days　by　the　ice　storm。　Most　of　the　encrustation　was　of　a　homogeneous　grayish…white；　very　smooth　and　polished；　but　it　wasn't　all　gray…white；　here　and　there　it　was　speckled　with　dozens　of　black　flecks　of　odd　shapes　and　sizes；　none　of　them　more　than　an　inch　square。　I　tried　to　touch　them；　but　they　were　deeply　imbedded　in　and　showing　through　the　gleaming　ice。　I　went　to　examine　the　east　wall　of　the　meteorological　hut；　but　it　was　quite　innocent　of　any　such　black　flecking。　So　was　the　east　wall　of　the　lab。
　 A　short　search　inside　the　meteorological　hut　turned　up　a　hammer　and　screw…driver。　I　chipped　away　a　section　of　the　black…flecked　ice；　brought　it　into　the　bunkhouse；　and　laid　it　on　the　floor　in　front　of　one　of　the　big　electrical　heaters。　Ten　minutes　later　I　had　a　small　pool　of　water　and；　lying　in　it；　the　sodden　remains　of　what　had　once　been　fragments　of　burnt　paper。　This　was　very　curious　indeed。　It　meant　that　there　were　scores　of　pieces　of　burnt　paper　imbedded　in　the　east　wall　of　the　bunkhouse。　Just　there：　nowhere　else。　The　explanation；　of　course；　could　be　pletely　innocuous：　or　not；　as　the　case　might　be。
　 I　had　another　look　at　the　two　unconscious　men。　They　were　warm　enough　and　fortable　enough；　but　that　was　about　all　you　could　say　for　them。　I　knew　they　weren't　well　enough　to　be　moved　within　the　next　twenty…four　hours。　I　lifted　the　phone　and　asked　for　someone　to　relieve　me；　and　when　two　seamen　arrived　I　made　my　way　back　to　the　〃Dolphin〃。
　
　
　 There　was　an　unusual　atmosphere　aboard　ship　that　afternoon；　quiet　and　dull　and　almost　funereal。　It　was　hardly　surprising。　As　far　as　the　crew　of　the　〃Dolphin〃　had　been　concerned；　the　men　manning　Drift　Ice　Station　Zebra　had　been　just　so　many　ciphers；　not　even　names；　just　unknowns。　But　now　the　burnt；　frost…bitten；　emaciated　survivors　had　e　aboard　ship；　sick　and　suffering　men　each　with　a　life　and　individuality　of　his　own；　and　the　sight　of　those　wasted　men　still　mourning　the　deaths　of　their　eight　rades　had　suddenly　brought　home　to　every　man　on　the　submarine　the　full　horror　of　what　had　happened　on　Zebra。　And；　of　course；　less　than　seven　hours　had　elapsed　since　their　own　torpedo　officer；　Lieutenant　Mills；　had　been　killed。　Now；　even　though　the　mission　had　been　successful；　there　seemed　little　reason　for　celebration。　Down　in　the　crew's　mess　the　hi…fl　and　the　juke　box　were　stilled。　The　ship　was　like　a　tomb。
　 I　found　Hansen　in　his　cabin。　He　was　sitting　on　the　edge　of　his　Pullman　bunk；　still　wearing　his　fur　trousers；　his　face　bleak　and　hard　and　cold。　He　watched　me　in　silence　as　I　stripped　off　my　parka；　undid　the　empty　holster　tied　around　my　chest；　hung　it　up；　and　stuck　inside　it　the　automatic　I'd　pulled　from　my　caribou　pants。　Then　he　said　suddenly；　〃I　wouldn't　take　them　all　off；　Doc。　Not　if　you　want　to　e　with　us；　that　is。〃　He　looked　at　his　own　furs；　and　his　mouth　was　bitter。　〃Hardly　the；　uniform　for　a　funeral；　is　it？〃
　 〃You　mean〃
　 〃Skipper's　in　his　cabin。　Boning　up　on　the　burial　service。　Tom　Mills　and　that　assistant　radio　operatorGrant；　wasn't　it？who　died　out　there　today。　A　double　funeral。　Out　on　the　ice。　There's　some　men　there　already；　chipping　a　place　with　crow　bars　and　sledges　at　the　base　of　a　hummock。〃
　 〃I　saw　no　one。〃
　 〃Port　side。　To　the　west。〃
　 〃I　thought　Swanson　would　have　taken　young　Mills　back　to　the　States。　Or　Scotland。〃
　 〃Too　far。　And　there's　the　psychological　angle。　You　could　hardly　dent　the　morale　of　this　bunch　we　have　aboard　here；　much　less　shoot　it　to　pieces；　but　carrying　a　dead　man　as　a　shipmate　is　an　unhappy　thing。　He's　had　permission　from　Washington。。　。〃　He　broke　off　uncertainly；　looked　up　at　me　and　then　away　again。　I　didn't　have　any　need　of　telepathy　to　know　what　was　in　his　mind。　
　 〃The　seven　men　on　Zebra？〃　I　shook　my　head。　〃No；　no　funeral　service　for　them。　How　could　you？　I'll　pay　my　respects　some　other　way。〃
　 His　eyes　flickered　up　at　the　Mannlicher…Schoenauer　hanging　in　its　holster；　then　away　again。　He　said　in　a　quiet；　savage　voice；　〃Goddamn　his　black；　murderous　soul。　That　devil's　aboard；　Carpenter。　Here。　On　our　ship。〃　He　smacked　a　bunched　fist　hard　against　the　palm　of　his　other　hand。　〃Have　you　no　idea　what's　behind　this；　Doc？　No　idea　who's　responsible？〃
　 〃If　I　had；　I　wouldn't　be　standing　here。　Any　idea　how　Benson　is　getting　along　with　the　sick　and　injured？〃
　 〃He's　all　through。　I've　just　left　him。〃
　 I　nodded；　reached　up　for　the　automatic；　and　stuck　it　in　the　pocket　of　my　caribou　pants。　Hansen　said　quietly：　〃Even　here？〃
　 〃Especially　here。〃
　 I　left　him　and　went　along　to　the　surgery。　Benson　was　sitting　at　his　table；　his　back　to　his　art　gallery　of　technicolor　cartoons；　making　entries　in　a　book。　He　looked　up　as　I　closed　the　door　behind　me。
　 〃Find　anything？〃　I　asked。
　 〃Nothing　I'd　consider　interesting。　Hansen　did　most　of　the　sorting。　You　may　find　something。〃　He　pointed　to　neatly　folded　piles　of　clothing　on　the　deck；　several　small　attaché　cases；　and　a　few　polythene　bags；　each　labeled。　〃Look　for　yourself。　How　about　the　two　men　left　out　on　Zebra？〃
　 〃Holding　their　own。　I　think　they'll　be　okay；　but　it's　too　early　to　say　yet。〃　I　squatted　on　the　floor；　went　carefully　through　all　the　pockets　in　the　clothes；　and　found；　as　I　had　expected；　nothing。　Hansen　wasn't　the　man　to　miss　anything。　I　felt　every　square　inch　of　the　lining　areas　and　came　up　with　the　same　results。　I　went　through　the　small　cases　and　the　polythene　bags；　small　items　of　clothing　and　personal　gear；　shaving　kits；　letters；　photographs；　two　or　three　cameras。　I　broke　open　the　cameras　and　they　were　all　empty。　I　said　to　Benson：　〃Dr。　Jolly　brought　his　medical　case　aboard　with　him？〃
　 〃Wouldn't　even　trust　one　of　your　own　colleagues；　would　you？〃
　 〃No。〃
　 〃Neither　would　I。〃　He　smiled　with　his　mouth　only。　〃Your　evil　influence。　I　went　through　every　item　in　it。　Not　a　thing。　I　even　measured　the　thickness　of　the　bottom　of　the　case。　Nothing　there。〃
　 〃Good　enough　for　me。　How　are　the　patients？〃
　 〃Nine　of　them；〃　Benson　said。　〃The　psychological　effect　of　knowing　that　they're　safe　has　done　them　more　good　than　any　medication　ever　could。〃　He　consulted　cards　on…　his　desk。　〃Captain　Folsom　is　the　worst。　No　danger；　of　course；　but　his　facial　burns　are　pretty　savage。　We've　arranged　to　have　a　plastic　surgeon　standing　by　in　Glasgow　when　we　return。　The　Harrington　twins；　both　met　officers；　aren't　so　badly　burned　but　they're　very　weak　from　cold　and　hunger。　Food；　warmth；　and　rest　will　have　them　on　their　feet　in　a　couple　of　days　again。　Hassard；　another　met　officer；　and　Jeremy；　a　lab　technician；　moderate　burns；　moderate　frostbite；　in　the　best　shape　of　all　otherwise。　It's　queer　how　different　people　react　so　differently　to　hunger　and　cold。　The　other　fourKinnaird；　the　senior　radio　operator；　Dr。　Jolly；　Naseby；　the　cook；　and　Hewson；　the　tractor　driver　and　man　who　was　in　charge　of　the　generatorare　much　of　a　muchness：　they're　suffering　most　severely　of　all　from　frostbite；　especially　Kinnaird；　all　with　moderate　burns；　weak；　of　course；　but　recovering　fast。　Only　Folsom　and　the　Harrington　twins　have　consented　to　bee　bed　patients。　The　rest　we've　provided　with　clothes　of　one　sort　or　another。　They're　all　lying　down；　of　course；　but　they　won't　be　lying