“Of course. In my case . . .”
Her voice trailed off. She was sitting on the stuff that had been in her case, that had been in all the cases. She began to look around. He was standing on her favourite negligee. Before she could stop or think, she snapped, “You’re standing on my things!”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. I . . .” He blushed like a schoolboy and began to climb back up the seats.
Kate, in a rage with herself, clamped her teeth together for a moment very tightly and then said, “Look, look . . . Oh dammit, I’ve forgotten your name!”
“Hiram, ma’am, Hiram Preston.”
“Look, Hiram, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, I . . .” There were tears running down her cheeks. It was shock, she told herself; shock, nothing more. She picked up a towel conveniently to hand and began to wipe the tears away. The rough cloth came away coloured brownish red. She began to scrub harder, choking back sobs, hiding tears, cleaning her face.
As she found her handbag, brushed her hair, changed out of her stiff clothes and into jeans, shirt and heavy Arran pullover, her father and Preston continued to talk.
Halfway down the vertical row of seats on Kate’s right, someone else moved. “My God!” said Simon Quick’s voice, “what the hell happened?”
Quick had been half-unconscious for some time. Now he had jerked awake. “Oh, my God,” he said again. Then he undid his belt, opened it out and painfully began to crawl out of his seat.
Kate at the foot of the gangway combed her hair as she watched him roll out of his seat, grab on to the sides of the seats above him, and climb stiffly through the hole at the front of the plane. Suddenly the full uncertainty of their position washed over her. The euphoria caused by the simple fact that she had survived chilled in her. Had she survived to any purpose? Would she – would any of them – last for long on the ice without food or shelter?
“Ye Gods!” she said, her voice shaking with panic, “what on earth are we sitting in here for? What’s going on outside?”
“Well . . .” began Hiram.
“Oh never mind!” She began to search through all the jumbled contents of the cases on the floor for anything which would be of immediate use, but there wasn’t much. She caught up her dark glasses – those, she thought, would be useful against the painful brightness she could see through the portholes. Gloves, other things. She stuffed them all in her capacious handbag. Then she picked up her father’s book Food in the Arctic, and held its bulk speculatively in her hand, reading the title for the thousandth time or so. What do I need the book for now? she thought. I’ve got Daddy in person! She felt excited and began to climb up the seats . . .
Job, coming round the tail as fast as he dared, saw Colin lying there, saw the black wound in the ice running under his friend’s stomach, widening inexorably. Colin’s right hand was anchored firmly among a jumble of crates; his left was uselessly in the water. Without thought, working from countless experiences of the same nature, the Eskimo ran catfooted forward, grabbed Ross’s ankles, and gave a spasmodic heave. Ross was torn back, away from the crates, over the grinning mouth of the ice, and into a heap beside his friend. The green eyes were distant, the face paper-white.
“God,” said Ross, “but my arm hurts.”
“Of course it does,” said Job gently.
After a moment, Ross’s face began to clear. “The crates,” he said. “They’re full of equipment. We can set up a camp!”
Just then Quick’s voice came from behind them. “What are you two up to? Stealing the rifles, just to make sure you get through? A bit of food, perhaps, in case it gets short? Oh, I know how you work in these conditions, Colin, old chum, and I’m going to make damn sure that this time if you make it we all make it.”
Job took a step towards Ross, fearing an explosion of anger at the younger man’s taunts, but suddenly Ross was smiling. “You always were a self-confident boy, Simon; well go ahead: save us.”
Quick was for a moment nonplussed by Ross’s abrupt change of attitude; but it was plain what needed doing, and so he set about doing it.
“Most of the crates will have their contents stencilled on the side,” he said. “Job, what are those?”
“All food.”
“A good start. What do we need first?” This to himself, but Ross answered, “Clothes, I should say.”
“Right.” Quick was too preoccupied with the immediate problem to continue for the moment his feud with Colin. There was still much to be done if they were to survive the bright arctic night. “Clothes and then shelter. The tents were packed to this side, they should be there.”
“Perhaps they came out further back down the peninsula,” Job.
“Yes; right. We’d better check on that. No, you two had better continue getting the stuff out of there.” He banged on the side of the plane.
In the hold, the loose wire swung and sparked.
“Co-pilot! What’s his name? Preston? Preston! We need you out here.”
“Coming.” Muffled.
Ross gave Job a grin, and began to move the crates of food away from the wreck. As they moved towards the first low hills of the pack, however, the ice became slushy and rotten. Their feet began to sink deeper and deeper.
“This is no good,” said Ross after a few yards. “We’ll have to take them round the other side. At least the ice is firm.”
Job nodded. They reversed. They had just reached the crack at the plane’s tail when a much aggrieved Warren came round the port engine.
“What do you mean by leaving us in there like that? Quite a fright I had when I woke up. Nobody much there, only that Preston fellow and Kate all covered in blood. Made me feel quite ill. She’s all right though. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to say . . .”
“Dr. Warren, would you excuse us a moment?” Ross’s face was pale with the strain of holding the box. He was in some pain. “If we drop this we’ve lost several days’ worth of food . . .”
“Food? You’re saving FOOD? What about my equipment? We’ll be picked up before we’re even hungry, but that equipment is very expensive and would take months to replace! Have you people no sense of priority?”
Preston slid down the wing. Ross had a brainwave. “We think a lot of your equipment fell out as we crashed, Doctor. Would you take Mr. Preston here and look down the ice for more boxes, please?”
Warren stopped dead, turned round, and saw the crate beside the line of the crash. “Jolly good idea.”
He trotted off, Preston following. Ross and Job moved the box to safety, and put it down carefully.
“Doctor!” called Ross. Warren stopped and half turned. “Just remember there’s nothing under us except seven hundred feet of freezing water; and this ice isn’t very thick.” He kicked down with his foot: it sank in to the ankle. The doctor waved to show that he understood, and carried on in exactly the same belligerent way. Preston followed behind as though on eggshells in hobnail boots.
Ross and Job went back to where Quick was wrestling with the remaining food boxes. He had moved them back now, and had some access to the open hatchway door. The door was partially blocked with more boxes.
“Took your time,” said Quick.
“We met Warren and Preston. Sent them to look down the crash-path for more crates,” said Ross.
“Good. Now I don’t think we need move the boxes too far; we’ll be staying pretty near the plane: that’s standard procedure in these situations, but I do agree we ought to move them to the other side. This side’s very messy.”
“Look Simon, I hate to disagree this early . . .”
“Then don’t!”
“But I don’t think it’s too good an idea to stay beside the plane. There’s a lot of fuel about, and it’s just waiting to blow up.”
“Nonsense! It hasn’t blown up yet. I see no reason to believe it ever will. It’s quite steady . . . The engines are off. It’s quite safe.” He thumped the silver fuselage. The wire swung in the dark hold. The blue spark arced through the shadows and the petrol fumes.