“Get it? For Christ’s sake how do we do that? We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t get us!”
But Ross wasn’t listening. His cold eyes were sweeping over what was left of the floe trying to catalogue everything they had which could be used as a weapon. There was very little: two harpoons; one axe; fire, perhaps. A little ammunition. He thought of making more bombs with the bullets and then he remembered that they had lost the fuse with the dynamite.
So that was it: hand to hand. God, he thought, if only they had something which would hold it still for a few minutes while they got at it with the harpoons and the axe. He looked down, kicking snow aimlessly over a thick orange strand. What they really needed, he decided, was a net.
A net!
It came to him in a great flash. The net! And, even before the details were clear in his mind, he was moving.
“Simon. Put the boat together. Load up the lifejackets.”
“The boat!” Quick’s eyes swept disbelievingly over the collapsible dinghy lying in a jumble beside the hole where the old supply tent had stood. “Colin, you’re not thinking of going out after the thing!”
But Ross had already caught up the axe, and was using it to loosen the pegs at the ends of the ropes holding the net in place. These pegs were now inches from the water, and as he worked on them, his gaze probed the water restlessly for any sign of his enemy. He was muttering to himself, “Just a few more minutes, Aipalookvik, you bastard; just hold off a few more minutes.”
Eight ropes held the net in position, one going out from each corner, one from the centre of each side. He began by loosening the pegs on the three ropes pointing east. Then he loosened the one pointing south, his boots several inches deep in water. He searched the placid water before looking down to start work. The hairs on his neck were erect with the tension. It was all very well muttering to the whale that it ought to wait, but he would be in dire trouble if it wasn’t in a listening mood. Between each stroke he looked up, sweat running on his face. As soon as the peg sprang free, he was off at a brisk jog to the next one, the first of the three on the round bows of their ice-ship. Four to go.
Once again he paused and surveyed the deceptively quiet sea. He was at the end of the net now. He began to chop at the ice. Again, between strokes he searched the water with keen eyes, but nothing moved except the grey waves and the restless blue floes.
He moved up the net and chopped the next peg free as well. When he had done so he turned and began to walk casually back up the floe. Only two pegs at opposite sides remained, with the few pegs in the edge of the net itself, holding the floe tenuously in one piece.
“Simon,” he called, “are you sure you saw anything?” Quick looked up from fastening the last section of the boat in place and glanced over at Ross. He saw the tall man walking towards him slowly, silhouetted against the grey sea. And then, improbably, a black spike began to grow out of the top of his head. Quick gaped. What was happening?
And then he realised. “BEHIND YOU!”
Ross hurled himself forward at the cry, not looking round. The sound of the whale coming up after him deafened him. Something crashed into his back and hurled him forward. He slithered up the slope which suddenly appeared as the whale put its weight on the smaller section of the floe. Ross found the edge of the net under his hand and pulled himself up. The whale was three-quarters out of the water, raised on spread flippers, its gaping mouth just over a yard from Ross’s legs. He saw that great black and white face, scarred on nose and cheek, its chin spotted and swollen, as he twisted his right hand over his head, thrust the club of his left arm under the fire tray, steadied it with his right, and hurled it with all his might. It struck the whale’s scarred nose and exploded in sparks all over its face. The whale screamed and jerked back. The ice slopped down in the water, but the few pegs around the edges of the net held and the halves of the floe remained bound together.
“Jesus H. Christ!” said Ross, slumping back, gasping for breath.
“Colin! Are you all right?” Kate came on to her knees beside him.
“Yes. I’m fine. It was close though. That canny bastard almost had me!” His eyes were blazing, his face white and drawn with hate under the heavy black bristles of his thickening beard. He rolled over and climbed to his feet only to find himself face to face with an equally enraged Simon.
“You fucking idiot,” screamed the little man. “You threw the fire at it. We’ll all freeze.”
“Man, dear! Unless we get that beast up here and kill it now we won’t get a chance to freeze! Anyway, with the tent, the sleeping bags and blankets, we’ll be able to keep warm even if we can’t think of a way to light another fire.”
Quick calmed a little. “So, all right,” he said. “Let’s hear your plan.”
“OK,” said Ross seriously. “Look. All we’ve got are the harpoons and the axe. What we have to do is get the killer somewhere where we can hold it still for long enough to give us a chance to use them.”
“Great idea!” sneered Quick. “How do you suggest we do that?”
“We use the net.”
“How?” Kate.
“You remember when Simon and I had that fight in the tent?” He gestured towards the hole in the ice where the whale had come through. “The killer zeroed in on the noise, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we do the same thing here. If we have a mock fight, make lots of noise and yelling right by the crack, we might be able to lure it up into the net. Then, while it’s trying to get free, we’ll hack it to pieces.”
“Oh, great!” said Quick. “And what do we do when it wrecks the floe?”
“If we’re quick it won’t get the chance! Don’t you see? I’ve loosened all the pegs but two. It should just tear the net away from the ice and tangle it round itself. If we’re quick we can kill it before it does any damage.” He turned away to pick up the axe again, but he had only taken two steps before something hit him solidly in the back.
“What?” He turned, going down on one knee. Quick was dancing up and down on the net beside the crack. “Simon, for Christ’s sake, what . . . ?”
“I thought you wanted to fight!”
“Simon!”
“Well, don’t just kneel there! Come here and fight!”
“My God,” said Ross in disgust and got up. He turned his back on Quick again and began wearily to walk towards the axe. He had made three steps before Simon’s shoulder smashed into his back again and he went sprawling. It was then, with the stupid pointlessness of it welling bitterly in his throat, that he lost his temper. He came up off the ice hair wild, face bone white, eyes blazing with the cold light that animated the floes. “All right, you stupid bastard,” he breathed, and he began to walk across the ice. Quick danced away, still jeering, arms hanging loosely at his sides, mittens bulky like boxing gloves.
Away to the south the black thorn of the killer’s fin split the water silently and began to circle the floe.
Kate turned, mouth open, a harpoon in each hand as the two men closed and stared at each other for a moment over the restless crack.
“Look,” said Quick, stepping forward, hand held out, “I’ll tell you what . . .” His smile spread, boyish, rueful. His hand had almost touched Ross’s shoulder. He came up on his toes ready to kick his lifelong enemy in the crotch.
Ross’s right foot lashed out, the boot crashing into Simon’s leg a quarter of an inch below the kneecap. Simon screamed. Ross’s leg bent, following the blow up the thigh to bring his knee into Simon’s groin. The younger man came forward, his face falling hard on to Ross’s fist. The nose bruised, nearly shattered. Simon fell down the left side of Ross’s body, convulsed into a ball.
Kate dropped the harpoons.
Ross kicked out for Simon’s head, but his boot skidded off the heavy parka shoulder. Simon rolled away, pushing with his clenched legs, his clenched fists. Ross came after him, over the crack, one step, two . . . Then Simon hurled himself back, crashing into Colin’s legs and sending him sprawling. Ross landed awkwardly, throwing out his left arm as though it could support him, and it twisted against the stump with enough force to send his senses reeling.