Whiteout!

'Smooth, I'll say that,' Kelleher said beside me. There was a little sigh which may have been relief.

'Don't worry, I'll get you there.'

He laughed. 'Not too sure I want to go.'

'Spent much time at Hundred?'

'Enough. I was there when we put the reactor in. My outfit built it and it's still my baby. Any little problems, me for the deep freeze.'

I asked, a little self-consciously, 'What's it like up there?'

He hesitated. 'Hundred's got a kinda feel you can't put in a sentence. I try to tell my wife. Naturally she reckons it's some kind of pleasure centre. You know. Las Vegas on ice, booze and Eskimo broads.'

'But.'

'Oh, you'll sense it. Look at it this way ... Ice is plastic. It moves and it distorts. The place can't last above a few years. But nobody knows how temporary is temporary. You're up there on top of seven thousand feet of ice, right? Surveys say it's solid. There's indices of compaction, stability studies, graphs, measurements, but who in hell knows what's going on down below? Hundred did a two-foot sideways skip last year. Not much, right ?

But maybe it opened up something, somewhere, I dunno.You worried?'

'Interested.'

'Me, I'd" be worried.' The brief seriousness was submerged and the necessary patina of humour returned. 'I'd be worried about my dough, is what I'd be worried about. They got bridge players, poker players, pool players up there, those guys'll hustle you clean out of your long Johns. Got any money?'

'A little.'

'Leave it at Belvoir. Take nothing. No cheques, no cash, no credit cards, no gold watches, wedding rings, no tooth stoppings even. Travel light.'

'You paint a pretty picture.'

He grinned. 'Like I said, my wife don't believe it, either.'

Thirty-two minutes after leaving Thule , I was creeping the TK4 into Camp Belvoir . The trip had been neat and uneventful. Wind had come up a bit, but not enough, nose-on, to cause any bother, and I was lucky that the hangar doors didn't necessitate any fancy manœuvring. Within twenty minutes she was all tucked up.

I went to the headquarters hut and scrounged hot coffee from Cohen's sergeant clerk. Cohen wasn't there, but he came in a few minutes later. 'Hear you brought the great ship in!'

'She's in your hangar.'

'Yeah. Listen, we got news. Radio contact with Hundred. Wind's dropping up there, snow's stopping too. Looks like we may have a flying slot.'

'When?'

'Soon. Hours - maybe minutes. That's the way it happens, pal.'

Smales strode in, glancing at his watch. 'Looks good!' He saw me and said, 'Better get that buggy of yours loaded.'

'She's refuelled already,' I said. 'Ready for off.'

He shook his head. 'We got a slot, not a big weather break. You fly up with me. The Swing'll bring the hovercraft. If you want to supervise loading, do it now.'

'Right.'

Cohen pressed a button on the telephone on his desk. 'Get me Sergeant Scully.' He waited, looking up at me. 'Scully? Listen, I want a tractor, a flat-top wanigan and a mobile crane over at the hangar right away. Yeah, a forty-five-foot wanigan. Get that hovercraft loaded, it's going up on the Swing.' He hung up and said to me, 'Scully'll have the machinery there in five minutes.'

And in five minutes it was all there, big powerful equipment roaring in the cold air. Both tractor and mobile crane had fifty-six-inch tracks and a lot of muscle was controlled by a good deal of skill. I unwrapped the TK4 and drove her out into the open and on to the lifting pallet, and I'll admit my heart was in my mouth as the crane driver went to work. One slip or misjudgement could do a lot of damage, but the corporal operating the crane levers never let that pallet move more than a couple of degrees out of the horizontal, and he popped the TK4 on to the wanigan with no more apparent effort than you or I would need to put a cigarette packet on a table.

We were still chain-strapping her down when my shoulder was tapped. I turned and Cohen's sergeant clerk put his face close to mine, bellowing to make himself heard over the roar of the diesels.

'Better move, sir. The major says you leave in five minutes.'

I hesitated. I wanted to see the wrappings put back safely. The last padded chain was already being snapped into position. Scully joined us, shouting, but I didn't hear the words.

'What?’ I yelled.

'Leave it to me' he shouted. 'When he says five he don't mean six!'

I looked at him doubtfully and he laughed. 'Be okay,' he shouted. 'It's a promise. Give you a dollar a scratch, right?'

Scully's efficiency had just been well demonstrated and I hadn't much option.

'Thanks,' I yelled, and headed at a run for my room. A couple of minutes later I was in the Weasel again with Kelleher and Smales, and we were tearing back down the Thule track and Smales was looking at me with amusement. I said, 'Well, when you move, you certainly move.'

'That we do, old chap,' he said with a wildly exaggerated English accent. 'That we do.'

'So what now?'

He said, 'We fly from Thule , if the slot's still open.'

'Why Thule ? If time's so precious - '

His face was suddenly grim. 'Fixed wing. You heard about the helo crash?'

I nodded.

'We decided no helos go into Hundred, not till we get an investigation going. We go by Caribou and there's no strip 'at Belvoir, only a helo pad.' His tone lightened. 'You'll feel at home in the Caribou.'

I said, 'Not particularly. It's built by De Havilland ,Canada. Nothing to do with us.'

He glanced down. 'Hey!'

'Yes?'

'You didn't kick the snow off the felts.'

I felt myself flush as I bent to brush the snow crystals away. When I'd finished, I looked at the gleam of moisture on my fingers. 'Will it matter?'

'Not this time,' Smales said. 'You can toast them in the heater in the Caribou. Be dry when you reach Hundred.' He looked at me levelly. 'Just remember,' he said, 'they're your goddam feet!'

The Weasel clattered on to the swept concrete of the enormous runway at Thule . Over in front of the Corps of Engineers' Polar Research and Development hangar, the silver, twin-engined Caribou with the ice-orange wings and tail, was warming up, its tail loading ramp drooping. The Weasel went directly over to it and we got out and climbed the ramp. It was cold as hell in the bare cabin, where one of the crew stood waiting.

'Is that slot still open?' Smales demanded.

'So far, Major.'

Smales looked at his watch. 'Daylight sure won't hold.'

'We've done it before.'

'I know, I know. Okay, let's get the hell out of here.'

'I'll tell him to move his ass,' the crewman said. 'He's only a captain.'

Smales grinned. 'Tell him I said so. I outrank him if you don't.'

'Strap yourself in, sir.'

The seats ran the length of the Caribou's fuselage, leaving a broad space in the middle for cargo. There wasn't any cargo, however, except two wooden boxes which must have contained Smales's loot from two weeks of scrounging at Belvoir.

Whether the captain had been told or not, he moved. The air-frame shuddered a little as the ramp cranked upwards, and almost before it was secured, the plane was moving. The Caribou's a high-wing monoplane with plenty of power and plenty of lift, and I don't suppose it used more than about a tenth of the endless runway before the wheels lifted and we droned off.

Smales nudged me. 'Don't wait for the seat-belt sign. There isn't one. Heater grill's over there.'

I nodded, unstrapped myself and crossed the cabin to dry off the boots. In truth, they weren't very damp and the heater was powerful, almost too powerful. My feet were becoming uncomfortably hot when Smales said, 'Not too much. Sweat wets the inside.' So I returned to my seat, feeling rather helpless. In a set-up like the one they've got up there, you hand yourself over to the machine and move when they want you to move. You don't know anything; you're just anxious to remain safe and avoid being sworn at. An unwanted humility is draped over you like a wet sheet. Smales said, 'Be a great sunset.'