And share in its shame.

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 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 digital camera mp3 player 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 say, where to look, moments like this came all too seldom. Not until that moment did I realise how much of a symbol Theodore Mahler had become, how much his survival had meant for me. Hillcrest must have had some intuitive understanding of how I felt, for he spoke at once, his voice normal, matter of fact. "Service, old boy. Sorry we couldn't have laid it on earlier, but the Triton refused to risk an expensive plane and an even more expensive pilot flying low over virtually uncharted territory unless they definitely knew that Mahler was alive." "They've done all anyone could ask." A sudden thought struck me. "These planes don't usually carry ammunition in peace-time, do they?" "Don't worry," Hillcrest said grimly. He ladled some steaming stew on to our plates. "Nobody's playing any more. There's been a flight of Scimitars standing by since midnight, and every cannon's loaded. . . . Right, Doctor. Give with the story." I gave, as briefly and concisely as possible. At the end, he clapped his hands together. "Maybe five miles ahead, eh? Then it's tallyho down the old glacier and after 'em." He rubbed his hands in anticipation. "We're three times as fast and we've three times as many rifles. This is the way any decent IGY expedition should be run!" I smiled faintly, a token response to his bubbling enthusiasm. I never felt less like smiling: now that the worry of Mahlerand in that warmth and with hot food, almost certainly also the worry of Marie LeGardewas off my hands, my anxiety about Margaret had returned with redoubled force. "We're not tallyho-ing-down any old glacier, Captain Hillcrest. Apart from the fact that it's a rotten surface, which would bring your speed down to about the same as the Citroen's, open pursuit is a pretty sure way of guaranteeing that Margaret Ross and Mr Levin get a bullet through their heads. Incidentally, Mr Levin is the father of Mr Zagero." "What?" Both Hillcrest and Joss had spoken at the same time. "Yes. But later. Have you a map of the area?" "Sure." Hillcrest handed it over. Like most Greenland maps it showed topographical detail for no more than the first twenty miles inland, but it was