"Not in this case," I said flatly. "The Senator is right. Sure you can live a long time without food in normal conditions. You might even do it here—if you had proper day clothes and night coverings. You haven't—and how many of you have stopped shivering since you came here? Cold burns up your energy and depletes your reserves at a fantastic pace. Do you want me to list all the Arctic and Antarctic explorers—and Himalayan climbers -who have died within forty-eight hours of their food running out? And don't kid yourselves about the life-giving warmth of this cabin. The floor temperature is about zero now—and that's as hot as it's likely to get."
"You said there was a radio on your old tractor," Corazzini said abruptly. "What range does it have? Couldn't you possibly reach your friends—or your Uplavnik base—with that?"
I nodded in Joss's direction. "There's the man to ask."
"I heard," Joss said without enthusiasm. "Do you think I'd be trying to salvage this wreckage, Mr Corazzini, if there was any chance? It's an eight-watt transmitter with hand-cranked generator and battery receiver, it came out of the ark and was never meant for anything more than walkie-talkie use."
"But what is its range?" Corazzini persisted.
"Impossible to say." Joss shrugged. "You know how it is with transmission and reception. One day you can hardly pick up the BBC a hundred miles away, another you can pick up a taxi-cab at twice the distance, if you have the right receiver. All depends on conditions. This one? Hundred miles, maybe—hundred fifty in perfect conditions. In the present conditions, you'd be better with a megaphone. I'll have a go with it this afternoon, perhaps. Might as well waste my time that way as any other." Joss turned away and it was obvious that, as far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.
"Perhaps your friends will move within transmission range?" Corazzini suggested. "After all, you said they're not much more than a couple of hundred miles away."
"And I said they'll be staying there. They've set up their equipment and instruments and they won't move until they have to. They're too short of petrol for that."
"They can refuel here, of course?"
"That's no worry." I jerked a thumb towards the tunnel. "There's eight hundred gallons out there."
"I see." Corazzini looked thoughtful for a moment, then went on. "Please don't think I'm being annoyingly persistent. I just want to eliminate possibilities. I believe you have—or have had -a radio schedule with your friends. Won't they worry if they fail to hear from you?"
"Hillcrest—that's the scientist in charge—never worries about anything. And unfortunately, their own radio, a big long-range job, is giving trouble—they said a couple of days ago that the generator brushes were beginning to give out—and the nearest spares are here. If they can't raise us, they'll probably blame themselves. Anyway, they know we're safe as houses here. Why on earth should they worry?"
"So what do we do?" Solly Levin asked querulously. "Starve to death or start hikin'?"
"Succinctly and admirably put," Senator Brewster boomed. "In a nutshell, one might say. I propose we set up a small committee to investigate the possibilities—"
"This isn't Washington, Senator," I said mildly. "Besides, we already have a committee—Mr London, Mr Nielsen and myself."
"Indeed?" It seemed to be the Senator's favourite word, and long years of practice had matched it perfectly to the lift of his eyebrows. "You will remember, perhaps, that we have rather a personal stake in this also?"
"I'm unlikely to forget it," I said dryly. "Look, Senator, if you were adrift in a hurricane and were picked up by a ship, would you presume to advise the captain and his officers of the course they should adopt to survive the hurricane?"
"That's not the point." Senator Brewster puffed out his cheeks. "This is not a ship—"
"Shut up!" It was Corazzini who spoke, his voice quiet and hard, and I could suddenly understand why he had reached the top in his own particularly tough and competitive business. "Or Mason is absolutely right. This is their own backyard, and our lives should be left in the hands of experts. I take it you have already reached a decision, Dr Mason?"
"I reached it last night. Joss—Mr London—stays here to contact the others when they return. He will be left enough food for three weeks. We take the remainder, and we leave tomorrow."
"Why not today?"
"Because the tractor is at present unfit for winter travel, especially travel with ten passengers. It's still got the canvas hood on it that it had when we hauled stuff up from the coast. We have the prefabricated wooden sides and top that we need to arcticise it, plus the bunks and portable stove, but it will take several hours."
"We start on that now?"
"Soon. But first your luggage. We'll go out to the plane now, and bring that back."
"Thank goodness for that," Mrs Dansby-Gregg said stiffly. "I was beginning to think I'd never see my stuff again."
"Oh, you will," I said. "Briefly."
"Just what do you mean by that?" she asked suspiciously.
"I mean that you'll all put on as many clothes as you're able to stagger about in," I said. "Then you have a small attache-case for your valuables, if you have any. The rest of the stuff we'll have to abandon. This is no Cook's tour. We'll have no room on the tractor."
"But—but I have, clothes worth hundreds of pounds," she protested angrily. "Hundreds?—Thousands would be nearer it. I have a Balenciaga alone that cost over five hundred pounds, not to mention—"
"How much do you reckon your own life is worth?" Zagero said shortly. He grinned. "Or maybe we should abandon you and save the Balenciaga. Better still, wear it on top of everything—you know, how the well-dressed woman leaves the ice-cap."
"Excruciatingly funny." She stared at him icily.
"Frequently fracture myself," Zagero agreed. "Can I give you a hand with the stuff, Doc?"
"You stay here, Johnny Zagero!" Solly Levin jumped up in agitation. "One little slip on that ice—"
"Calm yourself, calm yourself." Zagero patted his shoulder. "Merely goin' in a supervisory capacity, Solly. How about it, Doc?"
"Thanks. You want to come, Mr Corazzini?" I could see he was already struggling into a parka.
"I'd be glad to. Can't sit here all day."
"These cuts on your head and hands aren't sealed yet. They'll sting like the devil when you get out into this cold."
"Got to get used to it, haven't I? Lead the way."
The airliner, crouching in the snow like some great wounded bird, was faintly visible in the twilight now, seven or eight hundred yards away to the north-east, port wing-tip facing us, lying at exactly right angles to our line of sight. There was no saying how often we might have to go out there, the quasi daylight would be gone in another hour or so, and it seemed pointless to follow in darkness the zigzag route we had been compelled to make the previous night, so with help from Zagero and Corazzini I staked out a route, with bamboo markers about five yards apart, straight out to the plane. Some of the bamboos I fetched from the tunnel, but most of them were transplanted from the positions where they had been stuck the previous night.
Inside the plane itself it was as cold as the tomb and as dark as the tomb. One side of the plane was already thickly sheeted in drift ice, and all the windows were completely blanked off, made opaque, by rime frost. In the light of a couple of torches we ourselves moved around like spectres, our heads enveloped in the clouds of our frozen breath, clouds that remained hanging almost stationary above our heads. In the silence we could faintly hear the crackling of our breath in the super-chilled air, followed by the curious wheezing noise that men make in very low temperatures when they were trying not to breathe too deeply.