Air seemed to flow, for some reason, slowly between the two bulbs and to draw warmth from me as it passed. My whole body was chilled now, as my mind was chilled with the fearful knowledge that I would almost certainly hang here until I died. Another glance at my watch showed that it was fifteen minutes since I'd moved; fifteen minutes of no contact, no hope, no company except icy speculation that this, for me, was the end. The meaning of those two, spaced-out taps still baffled me. One tap had meant 'lower'. Two had meant 'stop'. Could it be that what Kelleher had meant was that they'd have to stop? But if so, why? There was only one answer that made any sense, and that one was pushing me steadily towards the edge of panic: the killer up there had found two men working at the well hoist! But if he'd done that, if he'd attacked them, surely he'd have cut the cable, too, to ensure that whoever was down the well stayed down. But the cable was steel, and in any case there was no need; he disposed of me just as effectively by marooning me.
I began to think half-seriously about suicide. It might be better to unfasten the straps and die quickly than to dangle here as life slipped agonizingly away. There were no other possibilities. No man alive could hope to climb either the ice walls of the bulb or the thin steel cable that rose through several hundred feet to the ice trench above. And now, at last, even the light from my lamp was fading as the battery's power drained away. Soon I would be waiting for death in the freezing dark. It became increasingly difficult even to flex my hands inside my gloves as my blood circulation slowed. How pathetic, I thought once, in a sudden spurt of anger, to go like this, not knowing; how pathetic to die failing*. How pathetic not to know who the Chameleon was, who F, was. 'Young F.' who could I blinked. The seat had moved! I shone the now-dim lamp towards the top of the neck, but the top of the neck wasn't there! It was below, ten feet, even twelve . ., now fifteen. I was moving upwards fast, far faster than Kelleher and the sergeant had been able to wind in the cable. Which must . . , could only mean the winch !
The nylon line jerked in my hands and I hastily paid out more, and kept on doing so as the chair rose steadily upwards. In no time I was passing the icicles, moving into the neck, passing through into the topmost chamber. Again and again I tried the walkie-talkie, but without getting any reply. I'd been right, then - the thing was broken. It had to be broken, because somebody must be up there, in the trench, working the winch.
Somebody working the winch! Somebody who didn't reply! Somebody who -1 heard the click of my nervous swallow - might be waiting for me to appear at the well-head, strapped helplessly in the bosun's chair.
Tilting my head back, I looked upwards to where the dark thread of the cable ran up into the well-head. There was a circle of dim, yellow light from the trench, a complete, uninterrupted circle, with no head leaning over to watch me. Frantically now, I paid out the remainder of the nylon line, letting it hang loose, and tying the end to the seat. Then I pulled the ice-axe free. There was no more than thirty feet to go now, and I fumbled with numb fingers to unfasten the straps that held me in the chair. It began to rock slightly, swinging me within inches of a huge icicle, and 1 froze into stillness as I swung back, breathtakingly close to another. Was I going to touch? The chair moved back again and I was safe, at least from the icicles. The strap parted and I clung grimly with one hand to the chair frame, the other hand gripping the ice-axe, my eyes measuring the distance as the yellow circle moved down towards me. It was then, at the precise moment that the chair entered the narrow tube to the well-head, that my brain gave a little click and spilled an answer into my mind. For days I'd been thinking about it, trying to force out conclusions, and there had been none. Now, when all my awareness was concentrated elsewhere, the mental print-out chattered!
But there was no time to think about it, no time for even the smallest flicker of satisfaction. The cable ran smoothly over the pulley and I could hear the steady whirr of the electric motor, the soft clicking of the ratchet. Raising the axe in my hand, I waited for the switch-off, the watching face. There'd be a fraction of a second for identification, then I must strike, instantly and accurately. Ten feet. I called Kelleher's name once, twice, a third time, and my words vanished into unresponding silence.
Tensely I waited for the upward movement to stop. The top of the frame loomed nearer; my eyes came level with the bottom of the corrugated steel ring and therefore the floor of the trench .., and then I realized suddenly that it wasn't going to stop, that the chair was to be dragged right up to the frame, where the power of the motor would drag me and the seat against the pulley. I dropped the ice-axe, grabbed desperately for the corrugated iron and hurled myself sideways, out of the bosun's chair, but the swaying seat robbed me of any accuracy of movement and only my left hand reached the metal. My right hand clawed at empty air as I hung there over the well and the bosun's chair crunched into the ironwork above and was destroyed!
Chapter 18
Two frantic lunges with my right arm missed the rim of the ironwork and I could feel my left hand beginning to slip. Numbed, cold fingers lacked the strength to hold me and 1 knew with total clarity that I had only a second or two left before the tenuous grip broke and I plunged into the depths of the well. Once more . . , and my last chance. If this final grab failed, it was over for me. I swung my right arm back, and touched something with the back of my glove. The nylon line ! I grabbed it despairingly and took a turn round my wrist as the fingers of my left hand began to slip inexorably over the metal. Would the nylon hold? It cut viciously into my wrist as my weight swung on to it, and I waited for the long fall . .
, then the agony on my wrist told me it was holding and I lunged again, desperately with my left hand, and got a grip, a better one this time, and made myself swing twice on the line until I could make a grab with my right. And this time I got it. A minute later, heart beating wildly, I was clambering over the iron surround on to the floor of the trench, relief and fearful anticipation whirling together in my head. If he was there, why hadn't he simply knocked my hand away from the well-head? I stared wildly round me. The trench seemed empty. But no - it wasn't! Kelleher lay on the trench floor beside the well-head, and the sergeant lay against the wall, beneath the winch control box. The electric motor whirred on. Quickly I bent to look at Kelleher. As I turned him on to his back, his arms moved limply, lifelessly And then I saw the little hole in his parka, over his heart. Kelleher was dead!
The sergeant was dead, too, lying in a puddle, already congealing, of his own blood. As I looked at him, I saw the red smudge of blood that ran across from the well-head to where he lay, and the little channel his body had made in the crystalline floor as he'd dragged himself towards the motor. There was more blood on the wall, where he'd somehow forced himself upright. It was so plain what had happened : the two of them at the handle, the trench door opening and closing, the two shots: Kelleher killed instantly and the sergeant, mortally wounded, using the last moments of his own life to reach the switch in a last desperate attempt to save mine. He'd known that when electric power was restored, the winch would come on automatically, hoisting me out of the depths of the icecap. Now I knew the two single taps had been gunshots, probably from a distance since the sound had not been loud. They must have been fired from close to the door. A glance at my watch showed that about eighteen minutes had passed since the shooting. How had those minutes been used ? And who had used them ?