“There,” said Job.
He was pointing. Kate followed the line of his arm with her eyes and there, surprisingly close, were the three great black sails moving easily round the floe. As she watched, three clouds of breath exploded up as though at the same signal.
“What are they doing?” Simon.
“Swimming round us.” Job.
“I can see that! What are they doing?”
“That’s all they’re doing.” Colin.
“Why?”
“Perhaps they’re waiting for the others.” Job.
“Oh, Christ. You really think so?” Simon.
“Who knows?” Colin.
“Are they really that intelligent?” Simon.
“Yes.” Colin.
“Oh Christ.”
Silence.
“What’ll we do then?” asked Kate, conversationally.
“What can we do?” snapped Simon.
“Kill them,” she said.
“How?”
The sixty-four thousand dollar question.
“What’ve we got?” she asked, turning. Colin said nothing, but he was turning with her, going back to the camp.
“What’ve we got for what?” Simon called after them.
“To kill them with,” she yelled back.
“Three harpoons,” said Colin.
“The axe, if you’re going in that close.”
“Right.”
“The dynamite, of course. Is there any way we can use the bullets? I mean we’ve got no rifles, but we’ve got some ammo left.”
“I don’t know. We’d have to think.”
“It’s as well you’re a fast thinker.”
He gave a half-grunt, half-laugh. “Get the harpoons and the axe, would you? I’ll try and think up something for the bullets.”
The harpoons were lying in various places about the camp. No one had collected them since the fight with the walruses. The axe was back by the fire. She took them to Colin who was on his knees by the latrine tent.
“Excellent,” he said, and held up a red and white striped bundle. “Cut that, please.” She cut it carefully with the axe. “Thanks.”
“What is it?”
“What I’ve thought up.” He was pushing the red and white bundle into an empty baked beans tin. “All we need now is some way to aim it.”
Kate saw that he had simply taken half a dozen rounds of the Remington ammunition, wrapped them in quick burning fuse, and wedged them in the tin. An inch of the fuse stuck out of the middle.
“Right,” she said. “Something long. That thing’ll be dangerous.”
“Yes. The original two-edged sword.”
“A good name. But how do we aim it? I mean, it’s far too dangerous just to throw it. God knows which way round it’ll land.”
“I know, I know.” His eyes were busy. “Gottit. Get me a mug.”
“A mug?”
“Just do it.”
They were using tin mugs, of about average size, enamelled dark blue. Strong but light. She brought one. The tin just wedged into it, and when it was in it was tight. They tied it by the handle to the end of a three-foot piece of plank.
“There,” said Colin when they’d finished. “The tin’ll come to bits, the mug’ll split, the handle will definitely come off and the rope will break anyway, but not until after the bullets start to go off.”
“It’ll never take over from the A-bomb.”
He looked at her very seriously. “If you have to use it, ‘light the red touch paper, and . . .’ ”
“I know, ‘stand well back’.”
“No. Run like hell.”
“Right.”
Simon came up to them, gasping. He had run from the edge of the ice in less than ten seconds.
“They’ve gone,” he said. “They’ve dived. Job thinks they’re coming in . . .”
BOOM!
The floe jumped, water slopped out of the long crack under the net. The corpses of the walruses stirred. Job arrived.
BOOM!
The second blow was only an echo of the first, but the rotten ice to the south humped up, and the biggest of the killers came through, water streaming from its scarred face, breath exploding in a cloud behind it. The ice heaved and creaked ominously. The whale looked around balefully, then sank slowly. The body of the walrus nearest the hole slowly rolled over, apparently of its own volition, and vanished as the ice at the edge of the hole cracked and gave way beneath its bulk.
Then the three sails were back in formation, going silently round the floe.
“The dynamite,” said Job. “It’s our only chance now.”
“Cutting our own throats,” Colin warned.
“What else is there?” asked Simon.
“Nothing,” said Kate.
“So that’s that, then,” said Job. “Where is it?”
“Here.” Colin hefted the box over out of the shadow of the latrine tent, and snapped it open.
For a few moments they were silent, working quietly as a team, Kate holding the axe, Colin cutting short lengths of fuse, Job and Simon handling the dynamite like experts, fusing the stubby sticks and standing them up well clear of the box in its detachable tin lid. After they had done half a dozen, Job said, “Right.”
“Six enough?” asked Simon.
“I hope so.”
“The floe won’t stand any more,” said Colin as he got up, but he took up the box as well as the lid.
“If it stands these,” said Job.
Skirting the hole where the supply tent had been, they went out over the one hundred feet to the edge of the floe. This section, which had been the eastern edge of the floe, seemed to be the most solid platform still available to them. Colin put down the lid, and then the box with the fuse a little way from it – just in case.
For several moments they stood in silence, searching the quiet sea for the black fins. They each had a box of matches, but only Job and Simon held sticks of dynamite. The minutes stretched on to agonising length. They all began to shift uneasily from foot to foot as the tension became harder to bear. At last Kate turned to Ross and said, “Colin . . .”
“There!” he snapped, pointing. At some distance, perhaps two hundred yards, the three fins silently pushed into the air, like the thorns of some huge rose. Again in unison came the three blasts of air puffing into clouds as the sound came.
Job had his fuse alight. Simon’s match blew out. He fumbled, trying to light another. Job took a little run and hurled the stick with all his great strength. It curved up into the air, turning end over end, spitting venomously against the dull sky, and began to fall, far too short. It exploded too soon, a yard above the surface, sending back a wave of air, but hardly disturbing the water. Simon got his fuse burning and turned towards the water, but the whales had vanished. He paused.
“Just throw it,” said Colin conversationally.
“What? Oh.” He hurled it as far as he could, a long low throw, the dynamite vanishing under the surface before it exploded. They didn’t have long to wait, however, before the surface heaved up into a brief powerful column which lingered in the air as the waves washed towards the floe.
“That wasn’t very good,” said Colin.
“Well, I . . .” Simon, angrily defensive.
“No, Simon, not you. The whole thing. Look. Kate and I will light the matches, or, better still, Kate, get some torches from the fire, would you?” She nodded and was on the way. “Then we’ll hold the torches and you two can light and throw more easily. OK?”
“Fine,” said Job.
Simon nodded.
BOOM!
The floe heaved. They all staggered with the shock. Two of the whales came through the rotten ice among the walrus corpses to the south of the camp. Simon was in action before anyone could stop him. This time his matches did not fail and the short fuse sputtered into life. Ross reached for the dynamite but Simon had turned and hurled it impulsively at the two distant killers.
The stick of explosive curled lazily up into the air over the camp, hissing its bright yellow flame, spitting its cloud of sparks, leaving pale trails of its progress on the eyes of the men who watched it. Ross yelled, “Kate!”