O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,

could only fully trust the other. They could, of course, as could all the others, trust Marie LeGarde and Margaret Ross: but the fact that they knew that Marie LeGarde and Margaret Ross couldn't trust them was enough to prohibit any attempts to establish an easier relationship. As for Corazzini, the Rev. Small wood, the Senator and Mahler, they kept very much to themselves. In the circumstances, then, it was inevitable that they should welcome the introduction of an absolutely innocuous subject of interest and conversation, something that would ease, however slightly, the coldness and discomfort of the social atmosphere, something that would divert their unwelcome and suspicious thoughts into some more tolerable channel. Theodore Mahler promised to be the best looked after patient I had ever had. I had just got the oil stove going to my satisfaction when Zagero called to me from his seat by the rear canvas screen. "There's somethin' funny goin' on outside, Doc. Come and have a look." I had a look. Far off to the rightthe north-west, that wasand high above the horizon a great diffuse formless volume of luminosity, spreading over almost a quarter of the dark dome of the sky, was beginning to pulse and fade, pulse and fade, strengthening, deepening, climbing with the passing of every moment. At first it was no more than a lightening in the sky, but already it was beginning to take form, and faint colours beginning to establish themselves in definite patterns. "The Aurora, Mr Zagero," I said. "The Northern Lights. First time you've seen it?" He nodded. "Yeah. Amazin' spectacle, ain't it?" "This? This is nothing. It's just starting up. It's going to be a curtainyou get all sorts, rays, bands, coronas, arcs and what have you, but this is a curtain. Best of the lot." "Get this sort of thing often, Doc?* "Every day, for days on end, when the weather is like thisyou know, cold and clear and still. Believe it or not, you can even get so used to it that you won't bother looking." "I don't believe it. It's amazin'," he repeated, "just amazin'. Tired of it, you say -1 hope we see it every day." He grinned. "You don't have to look, Doc." "For your own sake you'd better hope for something else," I said grimly. "Meanin'?" "Meaning that radio reception is hopeless when the aurora is on." "Radio digital cameras that make mpeg movies reception?" He crinkled his brows. "What we gotta lose, with the radio set in the cabin smashed and your friends in the trail party gettin' further away every minute? You couldn't raise either of them anyway." "No, but we can raise our Uplavnik base when we get a bit nearer the coast," I said, and the next moment I could have bitten my tongue off. I had never even thought of the matter until then, but as soon as the words were out I realised that I should have kept this piece of knowledge to myself. The chances of Uplavnik listening in at the right time and on the right frequency were remote enough, but it was always a chance: we could have sent out a warning, summoned help long before the killers would have thought of making a break for it. But, now, if Zagero were one of the killers, he would make good and certain that the set would be smashed long before we got within radio range of the Uplavnik base. I cursed myself for a blundering idiot, and stole a quick glance at Zagero. In the light streaming out from the gap in the curtain and in the fainter light of the aurora, his every feature was plain, but I could tell nothing from his expression. He was playing it casual, all right, but not too stupidly casual. The slow nod, the pursing of the lips, the thoughtful lifting of the eyebrows could not have been improved upon. Not even the best professional actor could have improved on it, and hard on the heels of that came the second thought that there were a couple of extraordinarily fine actors among us. But, then, if he hadn't reacted at all, or had reacted too violently, I would have been doubly suspicious. Or would I? If Zagero were one of the guilty men, wouldn't he have known that too much or too little reaction would have been the very thing to excite suspicion, and taken due precaution against registering either? I gave it up and turned away. But in my mind there was growing a vague but steadily strengthening suspicion against Johnny Zagero: and on the basis of the success and validity of my previous suspicions, I thought bitterly, that just about guaranteed Zagero's innocence. I turned and touched Margaret Ross on the shoulder. "I'd like to have a few words with you, Miss Ross, if you don't mind the cold outside." She looked at me in surprise, hesitated for a moment, then nodded. I jumped down, reached up a hand to steady her, then helped her aboard

Each lucid interval of thought

ever have the need to display In one long stride Teradia reached the room, and scooped up a pair of blue briefs that had evidently fallen to the floor. She flourished them under his nose and then pushed him back into the room. Well, if thats the case Killashandra stifled her giggles. You only wanted to take the limelight He poked his head around the door. Not when I know Torkess proclivities. Then again, he paused in the act of withdrawing his head, he probably has the cruiser packed with his boys so Im safer here than in City. Who needs the bodyguard then? Shall we have a mutual assistance pact? I read those were once very popular. Done! Lars slammed open the door, strode across the room, and gathered her into her arms, beaming down at her. If you spoil her dress or make-up Teradias mock anger subsided as she became aware of the atmosphere between them. Lars ached to kiss Killashandra as badly as she wanted to have his lips on hers. He sighed deeply and let her go. You look regal, Killashandra! But I think I liked you even better on the beach at Wing! Then you were mine alone to enjoy! His voice was low, his words meant for her, his sentiment unhindered by his grandmothers presence. You have outdone yourself, Teradia. He pulled the woman close, and kissed her cheek. Killashandra felt relief that there would be another sane and well-adjusted person to help Lars when she had returned to Ballybran. Now we had better go, Killashandra. The cruiser will have docked! Killashandra thanked Teradia as warmly as she could, wishing that the woman did not dismiss so casually her genuine gratitude. As they started to retrace their steps to the Harbor Masters residence, Killashandra was instantly aware of an alteration in the ambiance. Far below the squat bulk of the cruiser jet did much to explain the change, looming as it did, gross and menacing, its white ovoid hull diminishing the graceful fishing vessels. The slanted superstructure, the little nodules of its armaments, and the sprouting whiskers of its communications and surveillance equipment added to its menacing presence. Killashandra unconsciously hugged Larss arm. That is a very deadly looking machine. Do they have many of those? Enough! Can power winding feature in digital cameras Nahia and Hauness escape it? Lars chuckled, relieving his own tension and reducing hers. The Yellowback is smaller and faster, highly maneuverable and could slip through reefs that would ram the cruiser. Once theyre away, theyre well away. Killashandra could see the coming and going on the ramp leading to Olavs people bearing tables, chairs, seating cushions, baskets of fruit, bowls of fruit, jars, several men staggering under loads of provender. Killashandra had been expecting another beach barbecue, with its pleasant informality. It had not occurred to her that there might be no beach at North Harbor, nor would the Elder have been entertained in the casual setting she had so much enjoyed at Wing. She groaned. Lars squeezed her hand. Whats wrong? She gave a gusty sigh. State occasions! Formality! Scrapes and smiles and total boredom. Lars laughed. Youll be surprised. Pleasantly. How will your father get away with it? Lars grinned at her. Youll see. What she first saw was the disposition of guards, lining the route up from the harbor, spaced neatly and stiffly about the Residence, and armed. She had seen very few stun rifles in her life but she could recognize them. What was he expecting? Civil war? Elders usually travel with a considerable entourage. Especially in the islands. We are so aggressive, you see. Lars spoke with deep sarcasm and she took in an anxious breath. Oh, dont worry, Killa. Ill be circumspect. Youll not even recognize me as your impetuous lover. She cocked an eyebrow at him. Ill expect a return of that lover as a reward for my evening with Torkes. And why is it Torkes? I thought he was in charge of Communications. Lars choked back a loud laugh, for they had neared the first sentry. Elder Pedder is afflicted with motion sickness. The sentry who had been watching them approach from the corner of his eye suddenly pivoted, ported his weapon, and stared with impartial malevolence at them. Who goes there? The crystal singer, you fool, Killashandra replied in a loud and disgusted tone. With her bodyguard, Lars Dahl. When Killashandra would have

That Lords do lack their ancestors' good will,

and the entry on Ballybran. A much expurgated entry scrolled past, ending with the Code Four restriction. She queried the Files for political science texts and discovered fascinating gaps in that category. So, censorship was applied on Optheria. Not that that ever accomplished its purpose. However, an active censorship was not grounds for charter-smashing, and the Guild had only been requested to discover if the planetary exit restriction was popularly accepted. Well, she knew one person she could ask the tenor if he hadnt gone into hiding after last nights hunt. Killashandra grinned. If she knew tenors She had breakfasted the catering unit did offer a substantial breakfast and dressed by the time Thyrol arrived to inquire if she had rested, and more importantly, if she would like to start the repairs. He tactfully indicated her arm. Youve apprehended the assailant? Merely a matter of time. How many students in the Complex? she asked amiably as Thyrol led her down the hall to the lift. At present, four hundred and thirty. Thats a lot of suspects to examine. No student would dare attack an honored guest of the planet. On most planets, theyd be the prime suspects. My dear Guildmember, the selection process by which this student body is chosen considers all aspects of the applicants background, training, and ability. They uphold all our traditions. Killashandra mumbled something suitable. How many positions are available to graduates? That is not an issue, Guildmember, Thyrol said with mild condescension. There is no limit to the number of fully trained performers who present compositions for the Optherian organ But only one may play at a time There are forty-five organs throughout Optheria That many? Then why couldnt one of those be substituted The instrument here at the Complex is the largest, most advanced and absolutely essential for the performance level required by the Summer Festival. Composers from all over the planet compete for the honor and their work has been especially written for the potential of the sony digital camera memory sticks main instrument. To ask them to perform on a lesser organ defeats the purpose of the Festival. I see, Killashandra said although she didnt. However, once she had been admitted through the series of barriers and security positions protecting the damaged organ, she began to appreciate the distinction Thyrol had made. He had taken her to the rocky basements of the Complex, and then to the impressive and unexpectedly grand Competition Amphitheater which utilized the natural stony bowl on the nether side of the Complex promontory. Some massive early earthfault and a lot of weathering had molded the mounts flank into a perfect semicircle. The Optherians had improved the amphitheater with tiered ranks of individual seating units, facing the shelf on which the organ console stood. This was accessible only from the one entrance through which Thyrol now guided Killashandra. With a sincere and suitable awe, Killashandra looked about her, annoyed that she was gratifying Thyrols desire to impress a Guildmember even as she was unable to suppress that wonder. She cleared her throat, and the sound, small though it was, echoed faithfully back at her. The acoustics are incredible, she murmured and, as Thyrol smiled tolerantly, heard her words whispered back. She rolled her eyes and looked about her for an exit from the phenomenal stage. Thyrol gestured to a portal carved in the solid rock on the far side of the organ console. From his belt pouch he extracted three small rods. With these and his thumb print, he opened the door, the sound reverberating across the empty space. Killashandra slipped in first. As familiar as she was with auditoria of all descriptions, something about this one unnerved her. Something about the seats reminded her of primitive diagnostic chairs which used physical restraints on their occupants, yet she knew that people would cross the Galaxy to attend the Festival. Lights had come up at their entry and illuminated a large, low-ceilinged chamber. Taking up the floor space in front of the innocuous interlinked cabinets that made up the electronic guts of the Optherian organ were the prominent sealed crates containing the white crystal. Overhead harnesses of color-coded cables formed a ceiling design before they disappeared through conduits to unknown destinations. Thyrol led the way to the large rectangle containing the shattered remains of the crystal manual. How, in

I hear thy name spoken,

Navarone. Steering the unwieldy old caique had become difficult in the extreme: with the seas fine on the starboard quarter she had yawed wildly and unpredictably through a fifty degree arc, but at least her seams had been tight then, the rolling waves overtaking her in regular formation and the wind settled and steady somewhere east of south. But now all that was gone. With half a dozen planks sprung from the stem-post and working loose from the apron, and leaking heavily through the stuffing-gland of the propeller shaft, she was making water far faster than the ancient, vertical handpump could cope with: the wind-truncated seas were heavier, but broken and confused, sweeping down on them now from this quarter, now from that: and the wind itself, redoubled in its shrieking violence, veered and backed insanely from south-west to south-east. Just then it was steady from the south, driving the unmanageable craft blindly on to the closing iron cliffs of Navarone, cliffs that loomed invisibly ahead, somewhere in that all-encompassing darkness. Momentarily Mallory straightened, tried to ease the agony of the pincers that were clawing into the muscles of the small of his back. For over two hours now he'had been bending and straightening, bending and straightening, lifting a thousand buckets that Dusty Miller filled interminably from the well of the hold. God only knew how Miller felt. If anything, he had the harder job of the two and he had been violently and almost continuously seasick for hours on end. He looked ghastly, and he must have been feeling like death itself: the sustained effort, the sheer iron willpower to drive himself on in that condition reached beyond the limits of understanding. Mallory shook his head wonderingly. "My God, but he's tough, that Yank." Unbidden, the words framed themselves in his mind, and he shook his head in anger, vaguely conscious of the complete inadequacy of the words. Fighting for his breath, he looked aft to see how the others were faring. Casey Brown, of course, he couldn't see. Bent double in the cramped confines of the engine-room, be, too, was constantly sick and suffering a blinding headache from the oil fumes and exhaust gases still filtering from the replacement stand-pipe, neither of which could find any escape in the unventilated engineroom: but, crouched over the engine, he bad not once left his post since they had cleared the mouth of the creek, had nursed the straining, ancient Kelvin along with the loving care, the exquisite skill of a man born fujifilm finepix f650 6.0mp digital camera into a long and proud tradition of engineering. That engine had only to falter once, to break down for the time in which a man might draw a deep breath, and the end would be as immediate as it was violent. Their steerage way, their lives, depended entirely on the continuous thrust of that screw, the laboured thudding of that rusted old two-cylinder. It was the heart of the boat, and when the heart stopped beating the boat died too, slewed broadside on and foundering in the waiting chasms between the waves. For'ard of the engine-room, straddle-legged and braced against the corner pillar of the splintered skeleton that was all that remained of the wheelhouse, Andrea laboured unceasingly at the pump, never once lifting his head, oblivious of the crazy lurching of the deck of the caique, oblivious, too, of the biting wind and stinging, sleet-cold spray that numbed bare arms and moulded the sodden shirt to the hunched and massive shoulders. Ceaselessly, tirelessly, his arm thrust up and down, up and down, with the metronomic regularity of a piston. He had been there for close on three hours now, and he looked as if he could go for ever. Mallory, who had yielded him the pump in complete exhaustion after less than twenty minutes' cruel labour, wondered if there was any limit to the man's endurance. He wondered, too, about Stevens. For four endless hours now Andy Stevens had fought and overcome a wheel that leapt and struggled in his hands as if possessed of a convulsive life and will of its ownthe will to wrench itself out of exhausted hands and turn them into the troughs: be had done a superb job, Mallory thought, had handled the clumsy craft magnificently. He peered at him closely, but the spray lashed viciously across his eyes and blinded him with tears. All he could gather was a vague impression of a tightly-set mouth, sleepless, sunken eyes and little patches of skin unnaturally pale against the mask of blood that covered almost the entire face from hairline to throat. The twisting, towering comber that had stove in the planks of the wheelhouse and driven in the windows with such savage force had been completely unexpected: Stevens hadn't had a chance. The cut above the right temple was particularly bad, ugly and deep: the blood still pulsed over the ragged edge of the wound, dripped monotonously into the water that sloshed and gurgled about the floor of the wheelhouse. Sick to his heart, Mallory turned away, reached down for another

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;

please! They had already positioned the first of the final slender crystals when Trag and Elder Ampris entered. Only five more crystals and this installation is complete. Trag was saying to Ampris. I know that Killashandra is well aware that these upper register notes require the finest tuning. Killashandra nodded, receiving his tacit message. I will check the brackets on that sour crystal in the Conservatory organ and be back here in time for the tune-up. Killashandra was hoping that Elder Ampris would leave them to the task but he elected to remain, observing every movement. Killashandra hated to be overseen under any circumstances, and to have Ampriss gimlet eyes on her made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She was annoyed, too, because Ampriss presence put the damper on any conversation between herself and Lars. She had enjoyed the bantering exchanges which relieved the tedium and tension of this highly precise work. So she felt doubly aggrieved to be denied a morning of matching wits with Lars Dahl. They would have so little time left to enjoy each others company. Therefore, it gave her a great deal of vicarious pleasure to spin out the last final bracketings, giving Trag ample time to make his alterations on the Conservatory program. And deliberately irritating Elder Ampris with her persnickety manipulations. He was in a state of nervous twitch when she and Lars tightened the last bracket. There! she said on a note of intense satisfaction. All right and tight! She picked up the hammer and, seized by a malicious whimsy, struck the first note of the Beethoven motif. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ampris start forward, one hand raised in protest, his face drained of all color. She went up the scale, and then, positioning the hammer on the side of the crystal shafts, descended the 44 notes in a glissando. Clear as the proverbial bell and not a vibration off the tune. A good installation, if I say so myself. Killashandra slid the hammer into its space in the tool-box and brushed her fingertips lightly together. She released the damper on the striking base of the crystals and replaced the top. I dont think well fasten it just yet. Now, Elder Ampris, the moment of truth! I would prefer that Guildmember Trag He cant play! Doesnt even read music, Killashandra said, deliberately misinterpreting Elder Ampris. Lars pinched her left flank, his strong fingers nipping into the soft flesh of her waistline. She would have kicked back at him my journal digital camera if she could have done so unobserved. But I suppose you would feel more secure if he was to vet the completed installation, she added, giving Ampris a timorous smile more consonant to someone in the thrall of subliminal conditioning than her previous declaration. Trags reappearance was fortuitous. Just as I suspected, Elder Ampris, a loose bracket on the middle G. I checked both manuals thoroughly. Ampris regarded Trag with a moments keen suspicion. You dont play, he said. No. Then how can you tune crystal? Killashandra laughed aloud. Elder Ampris, every would-be crystal singer has perfect and absolute pitch or they cant get into the Heptite Guild. Guildmember Trag doesnt need to be a trained musician. Guildmaster Lanzecki isnt either. One of the reasons I was chosen for this assignment is because I am and trained in keyboard music. Now, Trag, if you will inspect the installation? She and Lars lifted off the cover. Trag was not above giving Ampris a second fright for he tapped out three of the Beethoven notes in the soprano register before altering the sequence to random notes. Then he did each note in turn, listening until the exquisite sound completely died before hitting the next crystal. Absolutely perfect, he said, handing her the hammer. Now, with your permission, Elder Ampris, Killashandra began, I would like to use the organ keyboard. When she saw his brief hesitancy, she added. It would be such an honor for me and it would only be the sonics. After last nights performance, I would be brash indeed to attempt any embellishments. Bowing stiffly to the inevitable, Elder Ampris gestured for her to proceed from the loft. Not that she could have done anything to damage the actual organ keyboard, and live, with so many security guards millimeters from her. As she took her seat, pretending to ignore the battery of eyes and sour expressions, she decided against any of the Beethoven pieces she remembered from her Fuertan days. That would be risking more than her personal satisfaction was worth. She began to power up the various systems of the organ, allowing the electronic circuits to warm up and stabilize. She also discarded a whimsical notion to use one of Larss themes. She flexed her fingers, pulled out the

Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.

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 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 argus digital camera website 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 the muscles of his arms; but always, as if possessed of independent volition, his hands tightened their grip again. There was a funny taste in his mouth, too, a sour and salty taste in a dry, parched mouth, and no matter how often he swallowed, or drank from the sun-warmed pitcher at his side, the taste and the dryness remained. He could no more exorcise them than he could that twisting, cramping ball that was knotting up his insides, just above the solar plexus, or the queer, uncontrollable tremor that gripped his right leg from time to time. Lieutenant Andy Stevens was afraid. He had never been in action before, but it wasn't that. This wasn't the first time he had been afraid. He had been afraid all his life, ever since he could remember: and he could remember a long way back, even to his early prep-school days when his famous father, Sir Cedric Stevens, the most celebrated explorer and mountaineer of his time, bad thrown him bodily into the swimming pool at home, telling him that this was the only way he could learn to swim. He could remember still how he had fought and spluttered his way to the side of the pool, panic-stricken and desperate, his nose and mouth blocked with water, the pit of his stomach knotted and constricted in that nameless, terrifying ache he was to come to know so well: how his father and two elder brothers, big and jovial and nerveless like Sir Cedric himself, had wiped the tears of mirth from their eyes and pushed him in again. . . His father and brothers. . . . It had been like that all through his

Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

as if to speak, but no sound came. "They got him too,'I repeated. "Just as they got the captain. Just as they got the second officerand the flight engineer." "They?" she whispered. "They?" "Whoever it was. I only know it wasn't you." "No," she whispered. Again she shuddered, even more uncontrollably than before, and I tightened my arm round her. "I'm frightened, Dr Mason. I'm frightened." "There's nothing" I'd started off to say there was nothing to be frightened of, before I realised the idiocy of the words. With a ruthless and unknown murderer among us, there was everything in the world to be frightened of. I was scared myself: but admitting that to this youngster wasn't likely to help her morale any. So I started talking, telling her of all the things we had found out, of the suspicions we had and of what had happened to me, and when I finished she looked at me and said: "But why was I taken into the wireless cabin? I must have been, mustn't I?" "You must have been," I agreed. "Why? Probably so that someone could turn a gun on you and threaten to kill you if the second officerJimmy Waterman, you called him, wasn't it -didn't play ball. Why else?" "Why else?" she echoed. She gazed at me, the wide brown eyes never leaving mine, and then I could see the slow fear touching them again and she whispered: "And who else?" "How do you mean 'Who else'?" "Can't you see? If someone had a gun on Jimmy Waterman, someone else must have had one on the pilots. You can see yourself that no one could cover both places at the same time. But Captain Johnson must have been doing exactly as he was told, just as Jimmy was." It was so glaringly obvious that a child could have seen it: it was so glaringly obvious that I'd missed it altogether. Of course there must have been two of them, how else would it have been possible to force the entire crew to do as they were ordered? Good heavens, this was twice as bad, ten times as bad as it had been previously. Nine men and women back there in the cabin, and two of them killers, ruthless merciless killers who would surely kill again, at the drop of a hat, as the needs of the moment demanded. And I couldn't even begin to guess the identity of either of them. "You're right, of course, Miss Ross," I forced myself to speak calmly, matter-of-factly. "It was blind of me, I should have known." I remembered how the kodak digital cameras kim comando bullet had passed clear through the man in the back seat. "I did know, but I couldn't add one and one. Colonel Harrison and Captain Johnson were killed by different gunsthe one by a heavy carrying weapon, like a Colt or a Luger, the other by a less powerful, a lighter weapon, like something a woman might have used." I broke off abruptly. A woman's gun! Why not a woman using it? Why not even this girl by my side? It could have been her accomplice that had followed me out to the plane earlier in the evening, and it would fit in beautifully with the facts. . . . No, it wouldn't, faints couldn't be faked. But perhaps- "A woman's gun?" I might have spoken my thoughts aloud, so perfectly had she understood. "Perhaps even meor should I say perhaps still me?" Her voice was unnaturally calm. "Goodness only knows I can't blame you. If I were you, I'd suspect everyone too." She pulled the glove and mitten off her left hand, took the gleaming ring off her third finger and passed it across to me. I examined it blankly in the light of my torch, then bent forward as I caught sight of the tiny inscription on the inside of the gold band: "J. W.-M. R. Sept. 28,1958'. I looked up at her and she nodded, her face numb and stricken. "Jimmy and I got engaged two months ago. This was my last flight as a stewardesswe were being married at Christmas." She snatched the ring from me, thrust it back on her finger with a shaking hand and when she turned to me again the tears were brimming over in her eyes. "Now do you trust me?" she sobbed. "Now do you trust me?" For the first time in almost twenty-four hours I acted sensibly -1 closed my mouth tightly and kept it that way. I didn't even bother reviewing her strange behaviour after the crash and in the cabin, I knew instinctively that this accounted for everything: I just sat there silently watching her staring straight ahead, her fists clenched and tears rolling down her cheeks, and when she suddenly crumpled and buried her face in her hands and I reached out and pulled her towards me she made no resistance, just turned, crushed her face into the caribou fur of my parka and cried as if her heart was breaking: and I suppose it was. I suppose, too, that the moment when a man hears that a girl's fiance* has died only that day is the last moment that that man should ever begin to fall in love with her, but I'm afraid that's just how it was. The emotions are no respecters of the niceties, the

In secret we met--

had taken the near-suicidal gamble of jumping after her to stop her. Even in that moment I wondered if I would have had the courage to do the same myself. I didn't think so. "Are you all right?" I shouted. "I think my left arm is broken," Jackstraw said conversationally. "Would you please hurry, Dr Mason? This bridge is rotten, and I can feel it going." His arm broken and the bridge goingand, indeed, I could see chunks of ice and snow falling off from the underside of the arch on which he was standing! The matter-of-fact lack of emotion of his voice was more compelling than the most urgent cry could possibly have been. But for the moment I was in the grip of a blind panic that inhibited all feeling, all thought except the purely destructive. Ropesbut Jackstraw couldn't tie a rope round himself, not with an arm gone, the girl couldn't help herself either, both of them were helpless, somebody would have to go down to them, and go at once. Even as I stared into the crevasse, held in this strange motionless thrall, a large chunk of niv6 broke off from the side of the bridge and plummeted slowly down into the depths, to vanish from sight, perhaps two hundred feet below, long before we heard it strike the floor of the crevasse. I jumped up and raced towards the tractor sled. How to belay the man who was lowered? With only eight or nine feet between the edge of the crevasse and the cliff behind, not more than three men could get behind a rope, and, with perhaps two men dangling at the end of it what possible purchase could those three find on that ice-hard snow to support them, far less pull them up? They would be pulled over the edge themselves. Spikesdrive a spike into the ground and anchor a rope to that. But heaven only knew how long it would take to drive a spike into the icy surface with no guarantee at the end that the ice wouldn't crack and refuse to hold, and all the time that snow-bridge crumbling under the feet of the two people who were depending on me to save their lives. The tractor, I thought desperatelyperhaps the tractor. That would take any weight: but by the time we'd disconnected the tractor sled, pushed it over the edge and slowly backed the tractor along that narrow and treacherous path, it would have been far too late. I literally stumbled upon the answerthe four big wooden bridging battens sticking out from the end of the tractor sled. God, I must have been crazy not to think of them straight away. I grabbed a coil of nylon rope, hauled out sony cybershot dsc-w130 digital camera one of the battens -Zagero was already beside me pulling at anotherand ran back to the spot as fast as I could. That three-inch thick, eleven-foot long batten must have weighed over a hundred pounds, but such is the supernormal strength given us in moments of desperate need that I brought it sweeping over and had it in position astride the crevasse, directly above Jackstraw and Helene, as quickly and surely as if I had been handling a half-inch plank. Seconds later Zagero had laid the second batten alongside mine. I stripped off fur gloves and mittens, tied a double bowline in the end of the nylon rope, slipped my legs through the two loops, made a quick half-hitch round my waist, shouted for another rope to be brought, moved out and tied my own rope to the middle of the planks, allowing for about twenty feet of slack, and lowered myself down hand over hand until I was standing beside Jackstraw and Helene. I could feel the snow-bridge shake under my feet even as I touched it, but I'd no time to think about that, it would have been fatal if I had even begun to think about it. Another rope came snaking down over the edge and in seconds I had it tied round Helene's waist so tightly that I could hear her gasp with the pain of it: but this was no time for taking chances. And whoever held the other end of the rope up above was moving even as quickly as I was, for the rope tightened just as I finished tying the knot. I learned later that Helene owed her life to Mahler's quick thinking. The dog-sledge carrying Marie LeGarde and himself had stopped directly opposite the spot where Helene had gone over, and he had shouted to Brewster and Margaret Ross to sit on it and thread the rope through the slats on the sledge top. It had been a chance, but one that came off: even on that slippery surface their combined weights were more than enough to hold the slightly built Helene. It was then that I made my mistakemy second mistake of that afternoon, though I did not realise that at the time. To help those above I stooped to boost her up, and as I straightened abruptly the suddenly increased pressure proved too much for the already crumbling bridge. I heard the ominous rumble, felt the snow begin to give under my feet, released my hold on Heleneshe was already well clear anywaygrabbed Jackstraw by the arm and jumped for the other side of the bridge a second before the spot where we had been standing vanished with a whroom and

Then Robin was stout, and tumd him about,

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 And a little house there he did spy; 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

Some pastime for to spy,

still clutched in the gloved right hand, at the unmilitary looking knapsack strapped to his back. He kept his gun lined up on the fallen body, waiting: this had been just too easy, too suspicious. Thirty seconds passed and still the figure on the ground hadn't stirred. Mallory took a short step forward and carefully, deliberately and none too gently kicked the man on the outside of the right knee. It was an old trick, and he'd never known it to failthe pain was brief, but agonisung. But there was no movement, no sound at all. Quickly Mallory stooped, hooked his free hand round the knapsack shoulder straps, straightened and made for the door, half-carrying, half-dragging his captive. The man was no weight at all. With a proportionately much heavier garrison than even in Crete, there would be that much less food for the islanders, Mallory mused compassionately. There would be very little indeed. He wished he hadn't hit him so hard. Miller met him at the open door, stooped wordlessly, caught the unconscious man by the ankles and helped Mallory dump him unceremoniously on the bunk in the far corner of the hut. "Nice goin,' boss," he complimented. "Never heard a thing. Who's the heavyweight champ?" "No idea." Mallory shook his head in the darkness. "Just skin and bones, that's all, just skin and bones. Shut the door, Dusty, and let's have a look at what we've got." CHAPTER 8 19000015 A minute passed, two, then the little man stirred, moaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. Mallory held his arm to steady him, while he shook his bent head, eyes screwed tightly shut as he concentrated on clearing the muzziness away. Finally he looked up slowly, glanced from Mallory to Miller and back at Mallory again in the feeble light of the newly-lit, shuttered lantern. Even as the men watched, they could see the colour returning to the swarthy cheeks, the indignant bristling of the heavy, dark moustache, the darkening anger in the eyes. Suddenly the man reached up, tore Mallory's hand away from his arm. "Who are you?" He spoke in English, clear, precise, with hardly a trace of accent. "Sorry, but the less you know the better." Mallory smiled, deliberately to rob the words of offence. "I mean that for your own sake. How are you feeling now?" Tenderly the little man massaged his midriff, flexed his leg with a grimace of pain. "You hit me very digital camera mate iii hard." "I had to." Mallory reached behind him and picked up the cudgel the man had been carrying. "You tried to hit me with this. What did you expect me to dotake my hat off so you could have a better swipe at me?" "You are very amusing." Again he bent his leg, experimentally, looked up at Mallory in hostile suspicion. "My knee hurts me," he said accusingly. "First things first. Why the club?" "I meant to knock you down and have a look at you," he explained impatiently. "It was the only safe way. You might have been one of the W.G.B.. . . Why is my knee?" "You had an awkward fall," Mallory said shamelessly. "What are you doing here?" "Who are you?" the little man countered. Miller coughed, looked ostentatiously at his watch. "This is all very entertainin', boss" "True for you, Dusty. We haven't all night." Quickly Mallory reached behind him, picked up the man's rucksack, tossed it across to Miller. "See what's in there, will you?" Strangely, the little man made no move to protest. "Food?" Miller said reverently. "Wonderful, wonderful food. Cooked meat, bread, cheeseand wine." Reluctantly Miller closed the bag and looked curiously at their prisoner. "Helluva funny time for a picnic." "So! An American, a Yankee." The little man smiled to himself. "Better and better!" - "What do you mean?" Miller asked suspiciously. "See for yourself," the man said pleasantly. He nodded casually to the far corner of the room. "Look there." Mallory spun round, realised in a moment that he had been tricked, jerked back again. Carefully he leaned forward and touched Miller's arm. "Don't look round too quickly, Dusty. And don't touch your gun. It seems our friend was not alone." Mallory tightened his lips, mentally cursed himself for his obtuseness. VoicesDusty had said there had been voices. Must be even more tired than he had thought. . . . A tall, lean man blocked the entrance to the doorway. His face was shadowed under an enveloping snow-hood, but there was no mistaking the gun in his hand. A short Lee Enfleld rifle, Mallory noted dispassionately. "Do not shoot!" The little man spoke rapidly in Greek. "I am almost sure that they

For he was a lusty young man.

drawstring of the net that might even then be starting to close round them. In addition to being dangerous, ruthless killers, they would become frightened killers; and they had Margaret and Johnny Zagero's father with them. But I knew I'd had no option, tried to thrust all thought of the hostages from my mind, turned to look at the third balloon that we had just released, then winced and closed my eyes involuntarily as the third flare, through some flaw or mis judgment in the length of the fuse, ignited not more than five hundred feet above us, the blue-white intensity mingling almost immediately with a bright orange flame as the balloon also caught fire and both started drifting slowly earthwards. And so intently was I watching this through narrowed eyes that I all but missed something vastly more important, but Jackstraw didn't. He never missed anything. I felt his hand on my arm, turned to see the strong white teeth gleaming in the widest grin I had seen for weeks, then half-turned again to follow the direction of his pointing arm just in time to see low on the horizon in the south-east and not more than five miles away the earthward curving red and white flare of a signal rocket. Our feelings were impossible to describe -1 know, at least, that mine were. I had never seen anything half so wonderful in all my life, not even the sight, twenty minutes later, of the powerful wavering headlight beams of the Sno-Cat as it appeared over a rise in the plateau and headed towards the spotwe had scrambled up from the glacier to the flat land abovewhere we had just ignited the last of our flares and were waving it round and round our heads on the end of a long metal pole, like men demented. It seemed an age, although I don't suppose it was much more than ten minutes, before the great red and yellow Sno-Cat ground to a halt beside us and willing arms reached down to help us into the incredible warmth and comfort of that superbly equipped and insulated cabin. Hillcrest was a great bull of a man, red-faced, black-bearded, jovial, confident, with a tremendous zest for living, a deceptive external appearance that concealed a first-class brain and a competence of a very high order indeed. It did me good just to sit there, glass of brandy in hand, relaxedif only for a momentfor the first time in five days and just to look at him. I could tell that it hadn't done him the same good to look at usin the bright overhead light I could clearly see our yellowed, blistered, emaciated faces, the bleeding, black-nailed, suppurating all but useless kodak digital camera user manuals hands, and I was shocked myselfbut he concealed it well, and busied himself with handing out restoratives, tucking away Mahler and Marie LeGarde in two deep, heat-pad-filled bunks, and supervising the efforts of the cook who had a steaming hot meal ready prepared. All this he had done before he had as much as asked us a question. "Right," he said briskly. "First things first. Where's the Citroen? I presume the missile mechanism is still aboard it. Brother, you just don't begin to have any idea how many heart attacks this thing is causing." "That's not the first thing," I said quietly. I nodded to Theodore Mahler, whose hoarse gasping breath filled the room. "This man is dying." "All under control," he boomed. He jerked a thumb at Joss who, after the first delighted greeting, had returned to his radio set in the corner. "The boy here hasn't left his set for over twenty-four hoursever since we got your 'Mayday' call." He looked at me speculatively. "You took a chance there. I wonder you didn't stop a bullet for your pains." "I just about did. . . . We were talking about Mahler." "Yes. We've been in constant contact, same wave-length, with two ships hi that timethe destroyer Wykenham and the carrier Triton. I had a fair idea your friends must be heading in this direction, so the Wykenham has been moving up overnight and is lying off the coast. But the leads and patches in the ice aren't big enough for the Triton to manoeuvre to fly off planes. She's about eighty miles south, in clear water." "Eighty miles!" I didn't bother to conceal my shock and my disappointment, I'd begun to have a faint irrational hope that we might yet save the dying man. "Eighty miles!" "I have news for you, Doctor," Hillcrest announced jovially. "We have moved into the air age." He turned towards Joss and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "A Scimitar jet fighter is just taking off." Joss tried to speak unemotionally, but failed. "It's airborne-now. Time-check 0933. We're to fire our first rocket at 0946thirteen minutes from now. Then two more at intervals of thirty seconds. At 0948 we're to set off a slow-burning magnesium flare where we want the stuff dropped, at least two hundred yards from the tractor." Joss listened for another few moments and grinned. "He says we're to get the hell out of it after we've lit the flare or we're liable to collect a headache or worse." I didn't know what to