I read it a third time, fascinated and wondering, and looking now for clues. Could this be a portrait of the killer? Certainly it could, but the damn thing was so worded it didn't even hint at Chameleon Constant's identity, or even his rank or age. And then there was that curious reference to Einstein. I had an impulse to awaken Allen and ask whether there were any mathematical geniuses around the place, but if Kirton had been right, Allen's impression of the man might well be something very different. Still, I could try it on Kelleher. I glanced at my watch. It was two o'clock in the morning and, with luck, few people would be about; so I ought to be able to get to the reactor trench unchallenged. There was a possibility - no, more than that, a probability - that Coveney would still be awake, and perhaps prowling, but I'd simply have to take a chance on that; the combination of my general itchiness, Kelleher's secrecy and Kirton's character sketch was too much to keep to myself.
Since I'd last been in Main Street, the power voltage had obviously been reduced, and some of the lights were out. I walked steadily along, grateful for the lower lighting. Even if I walked smack into Coveney, he'd be hard put to recognize me unless we were both directly beneath one of the roof lights. But I didn't walk into Coveney. What I walked into, with astonishing suddenness, was total darkness. Without warning,without even a preliminary flicker, all the lights went out. I stopped in mid-stride, thought about it, and moved to the snow wall, calculating that the fourth trench on the right housed the reactor and that I could feel my way along until I reached it. I'd gone about twenty yards and passed the first trench-opening, my mind full of what might have gone wrong with the diesel generators, when I heard the soft crunch of footsteps. I stood, listening. They were coming towards me, moving fast, and I could hear a man breathing, too, with the effort of running.
I made a decision quickly - and wrongly - and didn’t move out to tackle him, reasoning that it was somebody from the diesel shed on his way to get help. A few seconds later he was well beyond me and I knew how wrong the decision had been, because all of a sudden there was light again: but this time, it was the flickering glow of firelight, and it came from the diesel trench!
Briefly I contemplated turning and giving chase, but by then it was hopeless. Instead I ran towards the trench entrance, turned in, and stopped, appalled. The whole side of the hut was ablaze. I grabbed the fire axe and extinguisher from the trench wall and raced for the hut door, my feet splashing, for some strange reason, through water I Chapter 16
I flung open the wooden door and heat blasted at me. Already the fire had too strong a grip for any hope of saving the diesel shed and the air was full of choking wood smoke that stung water into my eyes and threatened my lungs. My eyes ran swiftly round the flame-lit scene; soon the smoke would be too dense to see anything. The three big permanent diesels, bolted to the steel-plated floor, were obviously immovable. I stepped quickly towards the portable generator I'd brought up in the TK.4 from Camp Belvoir and glanced at the switch panel. Off and the connections broken. But it was on wheels. I grabbed the tow handle and pulled, but the thing weighed two thousand pounds and my strength wasn't enough to move it. The axe handle then; as a lever. The fire was already eating fast at the far wall as I pushed the oak haft beneath the mounting and heaved upwards. I could feel the fire's heat through my parka. But at least the generator moved a few inches. Another heave and it moved again, but the heat was increasing rapidly and I could scarcely see through the tears forced from my eyes. A third heave -1 was gaining no more than six inches at a time - and behind me the heat was becoming intolerable. I snatched a second to grab the extinguisher, knock down the plunger, and stand it where the spurting foam could offer its limited protection to my back, and heaved and heaved again, frantically propelling the killing weight across the floor. Three walls were burning now and the roof had caught, but for the moment the floor remained sound, protected by its steel coating. But there was ten feet and more to go and the sheer effort involved was draining strength from already aching muscles in my arms and shoulders, my back and legs. And the heat was now intense. My chest burned from inhaled smoke. Another frantic lift at the lever, another small, slow forward movement, a few more inches gained. Again. And again. And each desperate heave was more panicky and less strong than the one before. Above me the roof rafters crackled and burned, now showering sparks down on me. The fire was spreading with astonishing speed. But now I'd manoeuvred the generator closer to the door. Only two or three feet remained. A burst of uncontrollable coughing halted me for long seconds, and grew worse as the spasms drew more choking smoke deep into my lungs. I wrenched at the handle, repositioned it and wrenched again, and then, behind me, part of the wooden wall crashed outwards and the roof lurched downwards. Two more heaves and the end of the generator was poised in the doorway. Three more and the wheels slumped down over the threshold
.., and jammed the mounting hard against the woodwork ! Another ... Oh God, it refused to move! With sweat pouring over me and my parka hood smouldering, I struggled to shift it the few extra inches that would tip the generator past the centre of balance and let it fall on to the saving snow of the trench floor. But the effort was beyond me now. I swore in fury and frustration, knowing that the generator's survival was Camp Hundred's survival; without the one, the other could not exist. As the flames roared nearer I wrestled despairingly to try to make those last inches of movement, but the heavy steel was anchored, its weight crunching down on the wooden threshold.
I knew I'd have to leave it; that or be burned to death, burned or suffocated. I staggered towards the door, and realized that in jamming the generator in the opening, I had almost blocked my own way out. But no, I could squeeze past. As I began to do so a head appeared dimly in the billowing smoke. I glanced behind me at the fast-encroaching flames, stepped back and beckoned, and the man hesitated, then forced himself past the generator into the hut.
There was no need to explain. I positioned the axe handle and together we grasped it and heaved upwards. The generator lifted briefly, then settled back.