He went to the galley, brewed a cup of coffee, sweetened it with gin. Walking down empty passageways and past abandoned quarters, he considered the facts of his triumph: a twelve-day run beneath five thousand miles of harsh, ill-charted ocean, from McMurdo Sound to the open Pacific, then out past the Circle, around the Palmer Peninsula, and on to the Astrid Coast, with not one man to assist him. He entered the periscope room, pushed his good eye against the viewfinder. Aiming toward the base of the Nimrod Glacier, a place called Shackleton Inlet on his chart, he adjusted the zoom control and twisted the focus knob.
A broad, flat hill of stone emerged from the blur. Clustered in the center of the nunatak were six trees – Lieutenant Grass’s hydroponic orchard, born and bred in the missile tubes, rocked in the cradles of death. Owing to rigorous applications of killerwhale dung and other indigenous fertilizers, the trees were healthy, oranges glowing beneath shawls of ice, branches bowing pliantly in the breeze, roots seizing stern nourishment from the bedrock.
From each tree dangled a noose of steel cable.
Several platoons from the Antarctic Corps of Guards stood between the orchard and the spectators. The infinite crowd spiraled outward from the nunatak to the glacial tongue, and from there to the plateau above and the Ross Ice Shelf below. Blazing torches grew from the pressure ridges, their jack-o’-lantern glow catching the branches and throwing serpentine shadows on the ground. GUILTY! Mount Christchurch shouted in letters ten feet high.
Walled off from the mob by a brigade of police, a score of dissidents waved banners: FREE PAXTON… NO SY MBOLIC EXECUTIONS… ANYONE WOULD HAVE SIGNED. Well, well, mused Sverre, Dr Valcourt’s lover has a following. A misty image formed in the captain’s mind. His bride-never-to-be, Kristin. Where was she now? Attending the executions? In an ice limbo? At what age had she gained the continent?
Under one of the nooses sat a Sno-Cat – a Death-Cat, Sverre decided – bristling with a fresh and lavish coat of black paint. Its windows were smeared with frost; dark flatus poured from its tailpipe. On the roof, a man in a black scopas suit paced anxiously. The eye holes of his black face-mask looked like terrible wounds. A rope ladder spilled from the Death-Cat to the ground.
Surrounded by guards, a second Cat, this one painted a morbid white, rumbled into view, stopping about ten yards from the orchard. Juan Ramos and Gila Guizot leaped from the cab and tromped around to the rear. Prodded by a gun muzzle, Randstable stumbled out, tripping over himself. Ramos guided him to the Death-Cat, ordered him to climb the ladder. As the condemned man reached the roof, the executioner set about his duties, lashing Randstable’s wrists together with a leather thong and securing his ankles with a scopas suit utility belt. He eased the metal noose around the ex-Wunderkind’s neck.
‘You have anything to say?’ shouted Ramos.
‘The megatonnage had dropped to twenty-five percent of our late fifties arsenal,’ Randstable stated evenly, each word unmistakable even to a novice lip reader like Sverre.
The executioner tightened the noose and pulled a black leather hood over the prisoner’s head. Turning to the driver of the Death-Cat, Ramos pantomimed a guillotine blade encountering a neck. The vehicle chugged away, taking the executioner with it.
Randstable stayed behind.
Applause erupted from the mob. Some cried, ‘Bravo!’ Others, ‘Encore!’ and ‘Hooray!’ Sverre drank gin and cringed. He had expected better of his race. In the middle of Randstable’s second spasm, the front of his suit split and his little magnetic chess set burst out. The wind buckled the spectators’ signs: LET US IN… SLOW DEATHS FOR EXTINCTIONISTS… TARMAC, YOU SHOULD HAVE BASED THEM UP YOUR ASS… WHEN?
The Death-Cat stopped beneath the next tree.
Neck broken, consciousness gone, Randstable rotated in the frigid wind, his chess pieces scattered below his feet like fallen fruit. The physician of the court came forward with a stethoscope and listened to the hanged man’s heart. Shaking his head, the doctor stepped away. He shuffled, advanced, checked again, retreated. He checked a third time. A fourth. Finally, after twenty minutes in unquiet suspension, Randstable was pronounced dead.
Ramos went back to the white Cat, ordered Overwhite out. Within a minute the author of the STABLE treaties was on the gallows, bound, noosed, ready.
‘Have you anything to say?’ Ramos called.
‘In exchange for your compassionate understanding, I shall affirm that I see your viewpoint on this war and that I more or less comprehend why you are hanging me.’
His last negotiation.
The executioner lowered the leather hood, tightened the noose. Ramos signaled the Death-Cat. Overwhite’s boots bounced along the roof, and then they didn’t. Eleven minutes later, the physician declared him gone.
Gila Guizot dragged Reverend Sparrow into the gloomy air. Once atop the Death-Cat, he took out his little Bible, opened it, and recited with considerable majesty, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
There’s more truth in that than he realizes, thought Sverre, closing his good eye. When he looked again, the Bible lay in the snow and the evangelist was aloft.
Sverre focused on the white Cat. Had Wengernook, Tarmac, and Paxton seen the executions? What odd sensations were shooting through their red blood? Were they weeping? From the little he had experienced of the admitted mind, Sverre doubted that their thoughts were equal to the cosmic implications of the moment.
America’s Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs had become protoplasm. Four guards carried his limp and quivering body to the Death-Cat. They hauled him to the roof like a sack of rags, forced him into a standing position. Their muscled shoulders shored him up. Sverre recalled a videocassette that the tribunal had given him as he embarked on Operation Erebus. ‘This is the man we want,’ they had said, ‘You can watch it on the boat.’ It was a commercial for scopas suits starring a pious and nervous Robert Wengernook; the assistant defense secretary had explained that the suits were a deterrent, but failed to mention their uncanny powers against Antarctic weather. ‘Deterrence is only as good as the people it protects,’ he had said.
A guard stuck a cigarette in Wengernook’s mouth, where it bobbed around like a compass needle responding to a passing magnet, then fell out. Sverre grimaced. Operation Erebus was a mistake; there was no poetry in this.
‘Have you anything to say?’ Ramos called.
Wengernook began retching. Once airborne, it took him only two minutes to die.
The blizzard collected its forces. It rattled the trees and spun the four dead men. Branches flew away, crystalline oranges hit the ground. Through whirring snow Brat Tarmac walked to the scaffold – his pace was certain, measured, calm – and climbed.
Gazing through his rubber eye, Sverre directed his thoughts back to the days when he had believed in the tribunal, to the afternoon Tarmac had barged into his cabin demanding a retaliatory strike. He had disliked the general then, but today he noted a trait that he was inclined to call nobility. Admitteds took getting used to. He opened his good eye and saw Tarmac standing quietly on the dark roof, hands and feet bound, neck tethered to the tree. The MARCH Hare grinned at the crowd as the executioner placed the man-portable thermonuclear device in his holster.