He had joined in the fighting with the rest of the pack, and had done more than his fair share of the killing, but at the same time, he had been intensely aware of their presence above the thin layer of ice. At first there had been the shots, then the occasional distinctive tones of their voices easily distinguished from the other sounds of the battle. The old uncontrolled excitement burned in him. As the slaughter slowly stopped, he sent out excited cries to the others of the pack, but only his mate and one young male answered. Confused, he circled both floes until, away to the west, he heard the cries of the rest of them.
He went once more round the floe, took the last walrus, and followed.
Five miles to the west, a quarter of an hour later, he caught up with them. An older male was in the lead, moving sluggishly along. The leader joined him, swimming slower and slower until they all stopped. For the next few hours they remained there, playing gently sleepy games, dozing, recovering.
Then, as the sun began to climb invisibly behind the dull curtain of the clouds, the leader gave a brief signal, and began to swim east again, back to the floe.
He had swum for several minutes before he had realised only his mate and the one young bull were following.
Confused, he turned back, and the rest of the pack were waiting where he had left them. He made the sound of command again, and this time they began to follow him slowly. It took them nearly an hour to come anywhere near the floe, and when they did, the pack faltered again and stopped.
The leader swam among them, ordering, nudging, threatening, but to no avail. They would move no further. He swam on ahead of them again; and, again, only the young male and his mate would follow.
He swam round and round the sullen collection of silent whales. There were still ten of them, with the calf, more than enough to destroy the humans now the floe was so small, the ice so thin. If they would attack with him now, it would be over in a matter of moments. With increasing desperation he swam round them, but they would go no further. They were sated. And they did not share his conditioned joy in killing humans.
For a moment he was tempted to stay with them, but he had lived alone at the anchorage for so long that the ties of his kind were not strong in him. Certainly they were nowhere near as strong as the need to feel the heady excitement of the kill. So he swam round them one last time, and then headed purposefully east. His consort and the young bull followed.
The rest of the pack waited until the three had faded from sight in the rich water, and then began to move slowly south, following their new leader, one or two of them sending out locational calls in case the true leader should want to return to them later, when he had done what he had to do.
ELEVEN
Simon lifted his hands until they rested against the cold flesh of the dead walrus and pushed himself upright. The spear came out from under his right arm, and vibrated slightly in the monster’s throat. Simon looked around. It was all much the same as it had been before the walruses came, heavy grey sky pressing on the leaden sea, only the floes having brightness or colour. And the other floe, bearing the surviving walruses, was already some five hundred yards away to the right, caught in a chance current, and dwindling as he watched.
His tired eyes swept over the wreck of their own refuge. There were twenty corpses still lying around the camp, twenty-one counting the one he was standing beside. Only the latrine-cum-storage tent and the tent originally occupied by Ross and Job were still standing.
Where his own original tent had been there was a round black hole, with a spider’s web of crack radiating from it. And there was another hole behind him, beyond this walrus. What was left of the floe was now a rough oblong – seventy yards by fifty – and already punched with two holes. Quick shivered.
Still, they couldn’t just stand around till they froze to death, could they? It was obvious that if they were to save anything from the destroyed storage tent, they should start work at once. Of the tent itself there was no sign, but the pieces of the boat, disassembled and stored in case it got blown away during the storm, lay around seemingly undamaged. The box of dynamite stood on its end on the badly cracked and uneasily shifting pieces of ice at the edge of the hole. Broken crates and burst tins, chunks of orange ice and broken glass littered the immediate area.
“God, what a mess.”
His tired voice was surprisingly loud over the quiet champing and lapping sounds coming from the two holes. He brought up his right hand to scratch the itchy stubble of his chin, only to find it caked with blood on the palm, down to the end of the heavy mitten. He turned it over with a grimace of disgust and rubbed his face with the back of his hand. He looked down at himself. Not too bad – blood on his anorak and overtrousers, but not much. He walked over to Job. The Eskimo was lying flat on his back and so still that for a moment of panic Simon thought he was dead. His hood was up, protecting his head from the cold, and his legs and boots were badly covered with the walrus’s blood. Simon went down on one knee and shook him.
Job stirred and snored, turned a little and settled back to sleep. Simon felt relief sweep over him, and with it an insane desire to laugh.
“Job! Job, wake up you lazy bastard! This is no time for forty winks.” He thumped the Eskimo’s shoulder, and was rewarded by a grunt.
“Ye Gods!” He leaned forward and shook him with all his might. Job’s head rolled from side to side. His eyes opened, dark and distant, and closed once more. Simon began to get worried again. He dragged Job’s inert body out from under the walrus’s head, and half propped him against the tent-side. Job’s eyes opened again, this time with some sign of returning intelligence. Simon left him as he began to stir and went over to Ross and Kate.
“Fire,” he said.
“What?”
“We must build up a fire. Quickly. There’s dry wood in the tent.”
“Yes. Of course!” Colin felt a stab of impatience with Simon, then he realised the little man was thinking more clearly than he. Job would be all right when he warmed up a bit. He turned to Kate. “Make some coffee,” he said.
“We’ll have trouble getting water.” She gestured at the blood-dabbled ice.
“Sod it. Blood’ll probably do us good.”
“If you say so.” She began to dig.
Colin got up and went over to the latrine tent which was now doubling as a store. He got out two half-pound tins of ham, several cans of beans, and dried egg powder and went back to the fire with a big pot. Warm drink, some food, medicine – he shifted, feeling the sticking of his shirt warning of bleeding on his ribs – and sleep. That was what they all needed.
Before they started the cooking, they put Job inside the tent, took off his anorak, boots and overtrousers, and wrapped him in blankets and sleeping bags. Then they went outside again. Kate began to make the coffee, Colin dumped his big pot on the flames. They heated the ham in two solid chunks, poured on the beans, waited until they began to bubble, then added the egg. In all it took perhaps half an hour, and during this time they all chatted amiably, their differences for once forgotten.
They ate. Fortunately the plates were among the things they had moved to safety, for the set which they had kept by the fire tray had been destroyed during the attack by the walruses. Conversation over the meal was sporadic.
Then Kate got up and went into the tent. The Eskimo had been allowed to sleep long enough. “Job? Food’s ready.”
He stirred. “My God,” he said, mildly surprised, “we’re still alive.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“I really didn’t think we’d make it.”
“But we did.”
He nodded. It felt very good. Simply being alive felt very good indeed. He smiled.