Whiteout!

Where trench doors were locked, Smales didn't bother opening them. Where the entrances stood open, he'd repeat the process he had followed at the Command tunnel and wait until the Polecat's lights were glaring inside before peering cautiously round the corner of the snow wall. Then he'd go in. A minute later, maybe two minutes later, he'd reappear, shake his head, and wave the Polecat on to the next trench. The minutes he spent in the trenches were long minutes, even to me, secure, warm and safe inside the Polecat. What they must have seemed like to him, I can't imagine, but as an exhibition of cold courage, what Barney Smales was doing was impressive. Oh, he had the gun, right enough, but polar bears are white, and so were the tunnel walls, and there were shadows and bright reflections and piles of things the bear could have been behind, and the animal would have the faster reflexes. He worked his way doggedly along the length of Main Street, finding nothing. Each time he came out of a trench he'd shake his head and I'd sigh with relief and the driver would move the Polecat along. One tunnel he didn't even approach. It housed the six bodies and was locked. Finally we were back where we started, by the bulldozer. There was only one tunnel left now, a few yards in from the bottom of the ramp, with the words 'Reserve Fuel Store' in stencilled paint on the wooden door. I saw Smales glance at it, then glance again and finally walk over and push the door. It swung open and he looked inside, then came out and waved his arm. I climbed out of the Polecat and joined him. 'What do you make of that?'

he said.

I looked, then went inside, stepping over the coaming. This was one of the shorter trenches, no more than thirty yards long and on two levels. The floor of the rear half of the tunnel had been cut a couple of feet deeper to accommodate two of those big neoprene-plastic fuel tanks that look a little like very big black rubber dinghies. But these two no longer looked like that, indeed were barely visible in the huge pool of diesel oil that had leaked out of them and now lay in a dark lake that rose half-way up the two-foot sides. Where the neoprene of the collapsed flexible tanks was visible above the oil, I could see slashes in the plastic. I pointed and Smales said, 'Yeah, I saw.'

'Would a bear do that?'

'A zoologist I'm not. But nobody else would, that's for sure.' He was silent for a moment, then said,

'There's forty thousand gallons right there.'

I'd been looking at the slashes and thinking about the claws that could have made them and the strength of the beast. Now I looked at Smales and said, 'This oil can't be used?'

He nodded. 'Damn right.'

'So you're short of oil?'

'Let's just say,' Smales said, 'that the way things stand right now, the oil we got is six whits more precious than rubies . . .

Chapter 4

For Smales there were now urgent things to be done, the most important being a set of calculations on fuel supplies and consumption rates. He dismissed the Polecat, and told the bulldozer driver to continue sweeping the doorstep and marched off towards the command trench. I, on the other hand, had nothing at all to do. Remembering Dr Kirton's invitation, I strolled towards the hospital trench. I'd just gone inside when Barney's voice came over the loudspeaker to say that all personnel could now move about freely, and should resume their duties. The bear had done some damage, but was not in Camp Hundred. All the same, caution was to be exercised, and if there was any further damage, it must be reported immediately. Kirton raised his eyebrows. 'You hear what Pappa Bear did?'

'Yes. He ripped open two of the fuel tanks.'

Kirton whistled. 'We got problems. Oh well, they're not mine and they're not yours. Not yet. Coffee?'

'Thanks.'

'Cream or straight ? Bach or Mozart ?'

I said, 'I'll take the coffee straight and leave the music to you.'

Kirton was big, bulky and gave an initial impression of clumsiness ; it was belied by the precision of his movements. Just pouring coffee and putting on a record, he showed surgical sure-ness and dexterity. My records tend to have scratchy accidents. I thought enviously that all his would stay perfect.

'We'll soothe ourselves,' he said. 'See if you know this.'

As it happened, I did. I'd known a girl once who was nuts about that piece. I said, 'Albinoni. The adagio for violin and organ.' I settled back in my chair, but I wasn't really listening. Events were totting themselves up in my mind. There was the bear, and the fuel tanks. Yesterday: the coins in the reactor and the contaminated fuel that had stopped one diesel generator. Also yesterday, there was the failure of the landing-strip lights. Quite a list. I sipped my coffee and looked at Kirton, who sat with his eyes closed, looking rapt. But he must have been thinking, too, because as the Albinoni ended he said, 'You sure brought a jinx up here.'

'Blame me if you like. We call our jinxes gremlins."

'So you sure brought a gremlin.'

I said, 'No, the sod was here. While you were having all the accidents, I was happy, ignorant and far away. Tell me, is this place unlucky ?'

He shook his head. 'No, it's not. Or it wasn't. Funny thing, they always reckoned this was a real good-luck operation. They built it without losing a man. Not even a serious injury. Then a few years with a safety record damn near perfect. It's all in the last two weeks.'

I said, 'Tell me I'm mad if you like, but could any of this be deliberate?'

He looked a bit surprised, and then smiled. 'You mean sabotage?'

'Well, could it?'

'Not a chance. Sabotage anything up here and you sabotage yourself. If the machines stop working in a long bad weather phase, people are gonna die. The guy would have to be psychotic'

'You said last night everybody's a little mad.'

'A little maybe. But nobody's that crazy.' He grinned. 'Except, er . . , now look, Mr Bowes, you seen your shrink lately?'

I said, 'I Haven’t got a shrink.'

'No? Well, how about if I read my shrink books and then you come and tell me all about your father? Listen, what you got is the first, faint stirrings of what's known to science as the Hundred Heebies. It's all too complex here for our poor puny minds. Now finish your coffee and the doctor will take you for a nice walk.'

'Where do you want to walk to ?'

'I want to see what the bear did.'

We dressed and walked down Main Street to the fuel trench and Kirton looked at the ripped neoprene and said, 'He's got muscle, that old bear!'

I nodded. I was thinking that the animal's behaviour had been pretty strange, even by the doubtless eccentric standards of hungry bears. Camp Hundred was full of food. Looked at from a hungry bear's point of view, there were a lot of comestibles walking round on two legs, never mind all the orthodox grub in the food stores. So why had he left all the food alone and just slashed the tanks ? 'He certainly seems,' I said, 'to have been cross about something. And not very hungry, either, unless he enjoys drinking diesel oil.'

'Yeah.' Kirton gave me a glance, then said, 'I wonder . . .' He turned, crossed to the door and swung it closed. 'Look at this. He got food all right.'

The floor behind the door was littered with ripped-up tinfoil and torn plastic. I asked what it was.

'Emergency rations,' Kirton said. 'There’s a pack in all the trenches with doors, just in case somebody gets locked in. Hangs on the back of the door.'

'Clever old bear, then,' I said. 'I suppose the food's wrapped in the plastic?'

'No problem with claws like his. You and I break our nails trying to open plastic packages, but he sure wouldn't have any trouble.'