Alistair MacLean Arctic Chillers 4-Book Collection: Night Without End, Ice Station Zebra, Bear Island, Athabasca

‘Well yourself. What’s the matter? Think I’m too old, hey?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ I protested.

‘A fluent liar, but a gallant one.’ She grinned. ‘Come on, we’re wasting this valuable time you’re always so concerned about.’

We brought the girl into the first of the rear seats, where there was plenty of space between that and the first of the rearward facing front seats, and had just worked her coat off when Joss called me.

‘We’re off now, sir. Back in twenty minutes.’

As the door closed behind the last of them and I broke open a roll of bandage, the old lady looked quizzically at me.

‘Know what you’re doing, young man?’

‘More or less. I’m a doctor.’

‘Doctor, hey?’ She looked at me with open suspicion, and what with my bulky, oil-streaked and smelly furs, not to mention the fact that I hadn’t shaved for three days, I suppose there was justification enough for it. ‘You sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure,’ I said irritably. ‘What do you expect me to do – whip my medical degree out from under this parka or just wear round my neck a brass plate giving my consulting hours?’

‘We’ll get along, young man,’ she chuckled. She patted my arm, then turned to the young girl. ‘What’s your name, my dear?’

‘Helene.’ We could hardly catch it, the voice was so low: her embarrassment was positively painful.

‘Helene? A lovely name.’ And indeed, the way she said it made it sound so. ‘You’re not British, are you? Or American?’

‘I’m from Germany, madam.’

‘Don’t call me “madam”. You know, you speak English beautifully. Germany, hey? Bavaria, for a guess?’

‘Yes.’ The rather plain face was transfigured in a smile, and I mentally saluted the old lady for the ease with which she was distracting the young girl’s thoughts from the pain. ‘Munich. Perhaps you know it?’

‘Like the back of my hand,’ she said complacently. ‘And not just the Hofbrauhaus either. You’re still very young, aren’t you?’

‘I’m seventeen.’

‘Seventeen.’ A nostalgic sigh. ‘Ah, my dear, I remember when I was seventeen. A different world. There was no trans-Atlantic airliner in those days, I can tell you.’

‘In fact,’ I murmured, ‘the Wright brothers were hardly airborne.’ The face had been more than familiar to me, and I was annoyed that I should have taken so long in placing it: I suppose it was because her normal setting was so utterly different from this bleak and frozen world.

‘Being insulting, young man?’ she queried. But there was no offence in her face.

‘I can’t imagine anyone ever insulting you. The world was at your feet even in the Edwardian days, Miss LeGarde.’

‘You know me, then?’ She seemed genuinely pleased.

‘It would be difficult to find anyone who doesn’t know the name of Marie LeGarde.’ I nodded at the young girl. ‘See, Helene knows it too.’ And it was clear from the awe-struck expression on the young German girl’s face that the name meant as much to her as to me. Twenty years queen of the music-hall, thirty years queen of the musical comedy stage, beloved wherever she was known less for her genius than for the innate kindliness and goodness which she tried to conceal from the world with a waspish tongue, for the half-dozen orphanages she maintained in Britain and Europe, Marie LeGarde was one of the few truly international names in the world of entertainment.

‘Yes, yes, I see you know my name.’ Marie LeGarde smiled at me. ‘But how did you know me?’

‘From your photograph, naturally. I saw it in Life the other week, Miss LeGarde.’

‘“Marie”, to my friends.’

‘I don’t know you,’ I protested.

‘I paid a small fortune to have that photograph retouched and made briefly presentable,’ she answered obliquely. ‘It was a splendid photograph, inasmuch as it bore precious little resemblance to the face that I carry about with me. Anyone who recognises me from that is my friend for life. Besides,’ she smiled, ‘I bear nothing but the most amicable feelings towards people who save my life.’

I said nothing, just concentrated on finishing the job of strapping up Helene’s arm and shoulders as quickly as possible: she was blue with cold, and shivering uncontrollably. But she hadn’t uttered a murmur throughout, and smiled gratefully at me when I was finished. Marie LeGarde regarded my handiwork approvingly.

‘I really do believe you have picked up some smattering of your trade along the way, Doctor – ah—’

‘Mason. Peter Mason, Peter to my friends.’

‘“Peter” it shall be. Come on, Helene, into your clothes as fast as you like.’

Fifteen minutes later we were back in the cabin. Jackstraw went to unharness the dogs and secure them to the tethering cable, while Joss and I helped the two women down the ice-coated steps from the trap-door. But I had no sooner reached the foot of the steps than I had forgotten all about Marie LeGarde and Helene and was staring unbelievingly at the tableau before me. I was just vaguely aware of Joss by my shoulder, and anger and dismay on his face slowly giving way to a kind of reluctant horror. For what we saw, though it concerned us all, concerned him most of all.

The injured wireless operator still lay where we had left him. All the others were there too, grouped in a rough semi-circle round him and round a cleared space to the left of the stove. By their feet in the centre of this space, upside down and with one corner completely stove in on the wooden floor, lay the big metal RCA radio transmitter and receiver, our sole source of contact with, our only means of summoning help from the outer world. I knew next to nothing about radios, but it was chillingly obvious to me – as it was, I could see, to the semi-circle of fascinated onlookers – that the RCA was smashed beyond recovery.

3 (#ulink_43ec7ecb-6d71-58fa-a888-779024657de1)

Monday 2 a.m.–3 a.m. (#ulink_43ec7ecb-6d71-58fa-a888-779024657de1)

Half a minute passed in complete silence, half a minute before I could trust myself to speak, even bring myself to speak. When at last I did, my voice was unnaturally low in the unnatural hush that was broken only by the interminable clacking of the anemometer cups above.

‘Splendid. Really splendid. The perfect end to the perfect day.’ I looked round them slowly, one by one, then gestured at the smashed transmitter. ‘What bloody idiot was responsible for this – this stroke of genius?’

‘How dare you, sir!’ The white-haired man whom I had mentally labelled as the Dixie colonel took a step forward, face flushed with anger. ‘Mind your tongue. We’re not children to be—’

‘Shut up!’ I said, quietly enough, but there must have been something in my voice rather less than reassuring, for he fell silent, though his fists still remained clenched. I looked at them all again. ‘Well?’

‘I’m afraid – I’m afraid I did it,’ the stewardess faltered. Her brown eyes were as unnaturally large, her face as white and strained as when I had first seen her. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘You! The one person here who should know just how vital radio really is. I don’t believe it.’

‘You must, I’m afraid.’ The quiet controlled voice belonged to the man with the cut brow. ‘No one else was anywhere near it at the time.’

‘What happened to you?’ I could see he was nursing a bruised and bleeding hand.

‘I dived for it when I saw it toppling.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I should have saved myself the trouble. That damned thing’s heavy.’

‘It’s all that. Thanks for trying anyway. I’ll fix your hand up later.’ I turned to the stewardess again, and not even that pale and exhausted face, the contrition in the eyes, could quieten my anger – and, to be honest, my fear. ‘I suppose it just came to pieces in your hand?’

‘I’ve told you I’m sorry. I – I was just kneeling beside Jimmy here—’

‘Who?’

‘Jimmy Waterman – the Second Officer. I—’