Speak up, jolly blade, never fear;

thirty miles behind. It was infuriating beyond measure to know that he was almost certainly within two or three hours' driving time from where we were, but without a wireless or any other means of contacting him he might as well have been a thousand miles away for any hope there was of two tiny moving objects encountering each other by chance in that vast and featureless land. Soon after eight o'clock in the morning I stopped to have a look at the two sick people on the sledge, professional instinct, I suppose, but an empty token gesture: there was nothing we could do for them, except give massage at frequent intervals. The sound of Mahler's dyspnoea, his whooping gasping breathing, was the tolling of a death-bell to our ears, and this effort to breathe was extinguishing the last embers of life in his emaciated and frozen body. In three hours' time, by noon at the latest, Mahler would be dead. Nothing could ever save him now, it was madness, an utterly wasted effort to continue to drag him along on a sledge: he was past caring or knowing or feeling now, he could die just as peacefully if we left him lying on the glacier. Or so I have thought since then. But Mahler was more than a man to us that day, he was a symbol: we would leave Mahler when he had drawn his last gasping breath, but never before. Marie LeGarde was dying too, but quietly, softly, peacefully, like a little candle flame flickering to extinction. Maybe she would go first, maybe Mahler. But both of them would die this day. The going was becoming increasingly difficult now, not so much because of the gradually steepening slope of the glacier which made the sledge overrun us more and more frequently, but because of the fact that Jackstraw's torch had all but completely given out, and the fissures and crevasses that, earlier, had merely been nuisances to be negotiated, now became menaces to be avoided at the cost of our lives. It was now that Balto proved of his greatest value yet: as Jackstraw had said on our first day out from the IGY cabin, the big Siberian had an uncanny nose for crevasses, both open and hidden, in daytime or dark, and he made never a mistake that morning, constantly running ahead and then back towards us to guide us in the safest direction. Even so, progress was heartbreakingly slow. Shortly after half-past eight in the morning we came across the tractor sled lying at an angle against a moraine. Even in the near darkness it was plain to see what had happened. The steepness of the glacier, not to mention sudden unaccountable dips to left and digital point and shot camera case right across its width, must have made the heavy sled a dangerous liability, for, from its tracks, we had several times seen where it had slewed wildly at an angle, pivoting round on its iron tow-bar as, brakeless, it had sought to overrun the tractor. Obviously, Smallwood and Corazzini must have fearedand with reason -that on one of these occasions it would pull round the tail of the tractor after it and topple the tractor on its side, or, worse, drag it into a crevasse: so they had unhooked the tow-bar and left the sled. It was surprising that they hadn't done this earlier: apart from carrying their fuel and food, which reserves could easily have gone into the tractor cabin itself, it had been a useless encumbrance to them. As far as I could judge they had abandoned it with all its contents-apart, of course, from the portable radio-including the wraps we had given Zagero and Levin when they had ridden on it at the point of a gun. We took these, tucked them round Mahler and Marie LeGarde and passed on. Three hundred yards later I stopped so abruptly, that the sledge, bumping into me, made me lose my footing on the slippery ice. I stood up, laughing softly, laughing for the first time for days, and Zagero came up close and peered into my face. "What gives, Doc?" I laughed again and was just on the point of speaking when his hand struck me sharply across the face. "Cut it out, Doc." His voice was harsh. "That ain't goin' to help us any." "On the contrary, it's going to help us a very great deal." I rubbed a hand across my cheek, I couldn't blame him for what he had done. "My God, and I almost missed it!" "Missed what?" He still wasn't sure that I wasn't hysterical. "Come on back to the tractor sled and see. Smallwood claims he thinks of everything, but he's missed out at last. He's made his first big mistake, but oh, brother, what a mistake! And the weather's just perfect for it!" I turned on my heel and actually ran up the glacier towards the sled. Many items were carried as standard equipment in ICY parties, both in the field and at base camps, and none more standard than the magnesium flares which first came into common use in the Antarctic over a quarter of a century agothey are indispensable as location beacons in the long polar nightsand radiosondes. We carried more radio-sondes than any other item of equipment, for

Long time the manxome foe he sought -

slope with only a few stunted carob trees for anchor in the sliding scree, Mallory decided that they must rope up for safety's sake. In single file they scrambled and struggled up the ever-steepening slope for the next twenty minutes: Mallory, in the lead, did not even dare to think how Andrea was getting on behind him. Suddenly the slope eased, flattened out completely, and almost before they realised what was happening they bad crossed the high divide, still roped together and in driving, blinding snow with zero visibility, and were sliding down the valley on the other side. They came to the cave at dawn, just as the first grey stirrings of a bleak and cheerless day struggled palely through the lowering, snow-filled sky to the east. Monsieur Vlachos had told them that the south of Navarone was honeycombed with caves, but this was the first they had seen, and even then it was no cave but a dark, narrow tunnel in a great heap of piled volcanic slabs, huge, twisted layers of rock precariously poised in a gulley that threaded down the slope towards some broad and unknown valley a thousand, two thousand feet beneath them, a valley still shrouded in the gloom of night. It was no cave, but it was enough. For frozen, exhausted, sleep-haunted men, it was more than enough, it was more than they had ever hoped for. There was room for them all, the few cracks were quickly blocked against the drifting snow, the entrance curtained off by the boulder-weighted tent. Somehow, impossibly almost in the cramped darkness, they stripped Stevens of his sea- and rain-soaked clothes, eased him into a providentially zipped sleeping-bag, forced some brandy down his throat and cushioned the blood-stained head on some dry clothing. And then the four men, even the tireless Andrea, slumped down to the sodden, snow-chilled floor of the cave and slept like men already dead, oblivious alike of the rocks on the floor, the cold, their hunger and their clammy, saturated clothing, oblivious even of the agony of returning circulation in their frozen hands and faces. CHAPTER 7 Tuesday 15001900 The sun, rime-ringed and palely luminous behind the drifting cloud-wrack, was far beyond its zenith and dipping swiftly westwards to the snow-limned shoulder of the mountain when Andrea lifted the edge of the tent, pushed it gently aside and peered out warily down the smooth sweep of the mountain side. For a few moments he remained almost motionless behind the canvas, digital video camera buyi automatically easing cramped and aching leg muscles, narrowed, roving eyes gradually accustoming themselves to the white glare of the glistening, crystalline snow. And then he had flitted noiselessly out of the mouth of the tunnel and reached far up the bank of the gully in half a dozen steps; stretched full length against the snow, he eased himself smoothly up the slope, lifted a cautious eye over the top. Far below him stretched the great, cpxved sweep of an almost perfectly symmetrical valleya valley born abruptly in the cradling embrace of steep-walled mountains and falling away gently to the north. That towering, buttressed giant on his right that brooded darkly over the head of the valley, its peak hidden in the snow cloudsthere could be no doubt about that, Andrea thought, Mt. Kostos, the highest mountain in Navarone: they had crossed its western flank during the darkness of the night. Due east and facing his own at perhaps five miles' distance, the third mountain was barely less high: but its northern, flank fell away more quickly, debouchbig on to the plains that lay in the northeast of Navarone. And about four miles away to the north-northeast, far beneath the snowline and the isolated shep herds' huts, a tiny, flat-roofed township lay in a fold in the hills, along the bank of the little stream that wound its way through the valley. That could only be the village of Margaritha. Even as he absorbed the topography of the valley, his eyes probing every dip and cranny in the hills for a possible source of danger, Andrea's mind was racing back over the last two minutes of time, trying to isolate, to remember the nature of the alien sound that had cut through the cocoon of sleep and brought him instantly to his feet, alert and completely awake, even before his conscious mind had time to register the memory of the sound. And then he heard it again, three times in as many seconds, the high-pitched, lonely wheep of a whistle, shrill peremptory blasts that echoed briefly and died along the lower slopes of Mt. Kostos: the final echo still hung faintly on the air as Andrea pushed himself backwards and slid down to the floor of the gully. He was back on the bank within thirty seconds, cheek muscles contracting involuntarily as the ice-chill eyepieces of Mallory's Zeiss-Ikon binoculars screwed into his face. There was no mistaking them now, he thought grimly, his first fleeting impression had been

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,

lid and examined it closely. What are you looking for, Killa? Blood! Did you see any discoloration on the shards you handled? No If Camgail was killed by, and he gestured at the newly placed crystal spires, there would have been blood somewhere here! Was there only the official version of Comgails end? No. I had a chance to speak with one of the infirmary attendants and she said that he was covered in blood, crystal fragments had pierced eyes, face, and chest. With a little help, perhaps? But do you know for certain that it was Comgail who shattered the manual? Lars nodded slowly, his eyes gray and bleak, his face expressionless. And he had mentioned earlier that he knew the access to the subliminal units was through the organ loft? Again Lars nodded and both stared at the wall. Comgail did all the maintenance on the Festival organ? At Larss impassive nod, Killashandra scrubbed at her face with one hand. Did Ampris ever compose or perform? she asked in angry exasperation. The look of total surprise on Larss face gave her the answer. No wonder hes been bouncing about here, Lars cried, seizing Killashandra and hugging her with the excess of his jubilation. No wonder hes been so eager to get the manual repaired. He cant get to the subliminal units until it is. He cant alter the subliminals for this years concerts. Oh, Killa! Youve done it. Not quite, Killashandra said with a laugh. Im only hypothesizing that the manual provides the unlocking mechanism. Weve no idea what sort of music key hed use. It could be anything No, not anything, Lars cried, shaking his head and grinning, his eyes vividly blue again. Id stake my life I know what hed use I wish you wouldnt use a phrase like that, Killashandra murmured. Lars gave her a reassuring grin and went on. Remember what you said about bureaucracy finding one mechanism that suited them? Well, Ampriss one and only Festival offering utilizes a recurrent theme. But everyone on the planet would know it then. What difference would that make? Youd still have to have access to this manual, wouldnt you? True. Whats the theme? Its a real thumpety-dump, and he da-da-ed the notes camera digital dsc h sony to Killashandras utter amazement. Not only is it thumpty-dumpety-dump, its complete and utter plagiarism. Ampris lifted that theme from an 18th Century composer named Beethoven. Who? Killashandra lifted her hands in exasperation. Enough of this idle speculation, Lars, weve got to finish the organ as fast as possible. What about Trag? Killashandra shook her head. Trag is no threat to us. If we could just get the bass noted finished, wed have something to show him. I hope. She dropped a set of brackets into Larss hands and took another for herself. You wouldnt happen to know the signature of Ampriss composition? When Lars shook his head, she cursed briefly and then began to chuckle. Well just try the original one! Because they were rushing, nervous with anticipation and hope, hands sweating from tension, it seemed to take three or four attempts to place each of the next three crystals. Lars was muttering imprecations by the time Killashandra could test the third one. No sooner had she struck the crystal than the door panel slid open and the aperture was filled by Trags bulky figure. Trag, I bless your timely arrival. Were both fingers and thumbs trying to set this manual. A fresh hand and a sane mind will work wonders! Trag gave her a nod of his head and stepped inside, giving Lars a cursory glance before his attention was completely taken by a critical appraisal of their endeavors. Killashandra ignored the entrance of Ampris, Torkes, Thyrol, and Mirbethan, who filed slowly into the room in Trags wake. Trag picked up the tuning hammer and struck each of the crystals. Trag merely nodded his head. Lars made a noise of protest but Killashandra shot him a warning glance. The fact that Trag had no comments to make was all the approval she required, knowing better than to expect overt praise from him. For a very fleeting moment, however, she was seized with a totally irrational desire to throw her arms about Trags neck, a notion which she quickly suppressed without revealing it by so much as a grin. Elder Torkes, resembling the scavenger bird more faithfully than ever, seemed about to step forward, then, apparently, changed his mind as if aware of how Trags bulk diminished his stature to insignificance. You have only just arrived, Guildmember, and as it is now midday, refreshment has been prepared for you. Torkes began with scant courtesy. Trag dismissed

They hangd the proud sheriff on that,

shards. If Trag approached with Lars, the device remained silent, so Killashandras theory that crystal resonance confused the detector was correct. But her resonance was gone and, with the imminent arrival of the scout ship, there would be no chance for Trag to usher a few refugees past the security curtain at the shuttleport arch. Fortunately Lars also remembered that Killashandra had disrupted the monitors by singing the crystal fragments. These, resonating discordantly as the wearer hummed, fooled the detector. It was then only a matter of experimentation to discover just what quantity of crystal provided adequate shielding. Perfect pitch was actually a handicap, the more out-of-tune the note, the more the white crystal reacted, and deluded the detector. A week after the attack, Olav had no further excuse to stay at the Conservatory, and left, it was said, for the islands. He had been able to convince the Elders of his determination to send more islanders to the public concerts. Actually, he stayed in the City and made a few minor but important alterations to his appearance. The next day, he reported to Hauness and Nahia in Killashandras suite, bearing documents that proved him to be the qualified empath whom Hauness and Nahia had drafted from their clinic to attend Killashandra. Now that Killashandra was recovering, they wished to return to their other patients in Ironwood. Nahias the one who ought to be leaving, Lars had bitterly objected. Shes the most vulnerable of us all. No, Lars, Trag had said. She is needed here, and she needs to be here for reasons which you might not understand but for which I esteem her. Trags unstinted approval of the woman did much to placate Lars but he told Killashandra that, in leaving, he keenly felt himself the traitor. Then come back with the Revision Force, she said, more than a little irritated by Larss self-reproach on this and other issues. She immediately regretted the suggestion at the look of relief in Larss face. But it was a solution which could resolve many of Larss doubts, especially when she knew he loved his home world and would be happy enough sailing the Pearl Fisher around the islands. She was somewhat relieved that Lars would be happy on Optheria once the government had been changed. The Federation will need people with leadership potential. Trag says it usually takes a full decade before a new provisional government is appointed, much less ratified by the Federation. You might even end up a bureaucrat. Lars snorted derisively. Thats the most unlikely notion youve smart cards for digital cameras had. Not that I wouldnt like to get back here unprejudiced. Id like to make sure the change is going to be beneficial. And ensure that you had official permission to sail about in your beloved islands. She managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice for she could think of many things that a man with Larss abilities and talents could do, once free to move about the galaxy. It rankled that her body was not sufficiently mended to add that argument to verbal ones. Lars was treating her as if she were fragile. He was gentle and affectionate. His caresses, though frequent, were undemanding, leaving her frustrated. He was so solicitous of her comfort that she was frequently tempted to wreak a bit of violence on him. Although her jagged, red scars looked more painful than they were, a lover as considerate as Lars had always been would be reluctant to approach her. The symbiont couldnt work fast enough for her. But would it have repaired her before the scout ship brought them to the Regulus Federation Base? She tried to overcome her desire for Lars and to ignore the fact that time was running out for them both. It was too soon and not soon enough when Mirbethan communicated the imminent arrival of the scout ship, the CS 914. Then she was called upon to witness Trags confrontation of Lars, in the presence of the astonished, and delighted, Elders Ampris and Torkes as the Guildmember, imposing in his righteous indignation and wrath, accused Lars Dahl of infamous acts against the person of Killashandra Ree, and displayed the Federal Warrant. Against Killashandras loud cries of distress and disillusionment over her erstwhile lovers felonies, Ampris and Torkes struggled to contain their exultation over the arrest. Trags timing was superb and his manner so daunting that, with the Federal Scout ship landed in the shuttleport valley, the Elders were left with no option but to permit the arrest and the deportation of their erring citizen. There was no doubt they were delighted, though deprived of the joy of punishing him, that the Federal justice due to be meted out to Lars Dahl would be far more severe than their Charter allowed them. Among the others vindicated by this unexpected climax was Security Officer Blaz, who clamped restraints on Larss wrists with undisguised satisfaction. What was supposed to have been a dignified farewell to their auspicious guests was hastily cancelled by Ampris, waving off the various instructors and

"And mine is ragged and torn;

that the experts thought it was only a nine-inch crunch gun, that the crowding confines of the cave were bound to exaggerate its size. He told himself these things, discounted them: twelve-inch bore if an inch, that gun was the biggest thing he had ever seen. Big? Heavens above, it was gigantic! The fools, the blind, crazy fools who had sent the Sybaris out against these . . . The train of thought was lost, abruptly. Mallory stood quite still, one hand resting against the massive gun carrIage, and tried to recall the sound that had jerked him back to the present. Immobile, he listened for it again, eyes closed the better to hear, but the sound did not come again, and suddenly he knew that it was no sound at all but the absence of sound that had cut through his thoughts, triggered off some unconscious warning bell. The night was suddenly very silent, very stifi: down in the heart of the town the guns had stopped firing. Mallory swore softly to himself. He had already spent far too much time daydreaming, and time was running short. It must be running shortAndrea had withdrawn, it was only a matter of time until the Germans discovered that they had been duped. And then they would come runningand there was no doubt where they would come. Swiftly Mallory shrugged out of his rucksack, pulled out the hundred-foot wire-cored rope coiled inside. Their emergency escape routewhatever else he did he must make sure of that. The rope looped round his arm, he moved forward cautiously, seeking a belay but had only taken three steps when his right knee-cap struck something hard and unyielding. He checked the exclamation of pain, investigated the obstacle with his free hand, realised immediately what it wasan iron railing stretched waist-high across the mouth of the cave. Of course! There had been bound to be something like this, some barrier to prevent people from falling over the edge, especially in the darkness of the night. He hadn't been able to pick it up with the binoculars from the carob grove that afternoon close though it was to the entrance, it had been concealed in the gloom of the cave. But he should have thought of it. Quickly Mallory felt his way along to the left, to the very end of the railing, crossed it, tied the rope securely to the base of the vertical stanchion next to the wall, paid out the rope as he moved gingerly to the lip of the cave mouth. And then, almost at once, he was there and there was nothing below his probing foot but a hundred and twenty feet of sheer drop to the land-locked digital camera smallest thin shopzilla com harbour of Navarone. Away to his right was a dark, formless blur lying on the water, a blur that might have been Cape Demirci: straight ahead, across the darkly velvet sheen of the Maidos Straits, he could see the twinkle of far-away lightsit was a measure of the enemy's confidence that they permitted these lights at all, or, more likely, these fisher cottages were useful as a bearing marker for the guns at night: and to the left, surprisingly near, barely thirty feet away in a horizontal plane, but far below the level where he was standing, he could see the jutting end of the outside wall of the fortress where it abutted on the cliff, the roofs of the houses on the west side of the square beyond that, and, beyond that again, the town itself curving sharply downwards and outwards, to the south first, then to the west, close-girdling and matching the curve of the crescent harbour. Above-but there was nothing to be seen above, that fantastic overhang above blotted out more than half the sky; and below, the darkness was equally impenetrable, the surface of the harbour inky and black as night. There were vessels down there, he knew, Grecian caiques and German launches, but they might have been a thousand miles away for any sign he could see of them. The brief, all encompassing glance had taken barely ten seconds, but Mallory waited no longer. Swiftly he bent down, tied a double bowline in the end of the rope and left it lying on the edge. In an emergency they could kick it out into the darkness. It would be thirty feet short of the water, he estimatedenough to clear any launch or masted caique that might be moving about the harbour. They could drop the rest of the way, maybe a bone-breaking fall on to the deck of a ship, but they would have to risk it. Mallory took one last look down into the Stygian blackness and shivered; he hoped to God that he and Miller wouldn't have to take that way out. Dusty Miller was kneeling on the duckboards by the top of the ladder leading down to the magazine as Mallory came running back up the tunnel, his hands busy with wires, fuses, detonators and explosives. He straightened up as Mallory approached. "I reckon this stuff should keep 'em happy, boss." He set the hands of the clockwork fuse, listened appreciatively to the barely audible hum, then eased himself down the ladder. "In here among the top two rows of cartridges, I thought." "Wherever you say," Mallory acquiesced. "Only

And shows the thing much better than it is,

on that. We made a study of the incidents and have copies of what notes have been left by the deceased. Nine out of ten cite the hopelessness and despair at having no place to go, nothing to do. If youre lucky enough to be unemployed on Optheria, oh, youre given food, shelter, clothing, and assigned stimulating community service to occupy you. Community service! Trimming thorn hedges, tidying up hillsides, dusting boulders in the roadways, painting and repainting federal buildings, stuffing the faces and wiping the bottoms of the incontinent at both ends of life. Truly rewarding and fulfilling occupations for the intelligent and well educated failures that this planet throws upon the altar of the organ! He had been emphasizing his disgust with blows of his fist to the tiller, until Killashandra covered his hand with hers. Which one of our messages got through? Its been like tossing a bottle message into the Broad Sea with precious little hope of its ever floating to the Mainland. The complaint originated with the Executive Council of the Federated Artists Association, who claim a freedom of choice restriction. A Stellar made the charge, though I wasnt told which one. His principal concern was with the suppression of composers and performers. She gave him a wry grin. Lars raised his eyebrows in surprise. It wasnt me who sent that one. Then he seemed to lake heart, his expression lightening with renewed hope. If one appeal got through, maybe others have, and well have a whole school of people helping us And youll help us? Lars, Im required to be an impartial I wouldnt dream of prejudicing you His twinkling eyes challenged her as he threw his free arm about her shoulders, nibbling at her ear. Lars, youre crushing me. Youre supposed to be sailing this ship Ive got to think how to go on from here. To be candid, I really dont have much more than your word that there is a widespread dissatisfaction, and not just a few isolated instances or personal grudges. Do you know how long weve been trying to reach the Federated Council? Now Lars gestured wildly in his agitation. Do you know what it will mean to the others when I tell them one message has got through, and someone is actually investigating? Theres another matter that we have to discuss, Lars. Is it advisable to tell them, or would it be wiser for me to continue covertly? His jubilation subsided as he considered her question. I suppose the suicide file would be acceptable as valid evidence. Has the restriction panasonic digital camera software download matter ever been put to the vote here? A vote on Optheria? He laughed sourly. You havent read that abominable Charter, have you? I scanned it. A boring document, all those highflown phrases turned my pragmatic stomach. Before Killashandras eyes rose the vision of tortured architecture coping with natural formations so as not to rape the Natural World. So there is no referendum mechanism in the Charter? None. The Elders run this planet and, when one of them keels over and can no longer be resuscitated, a replacement is appointed by the remaining undefunct Elders. No rising from the ranks on merit here? Only in the Conservatory, and for especially meritorious composition and exceptional performance ability. Then one might possibly, on rare occasions, aspire to reach the exalted rank of a Master. Once in a century, a Master might possibly gain an appointment to the Council of Elders. Is that what you were after? Lars gave her a wry grin. I tried! I was even willing to assault you to gain favor and show them what a good, useful, boy I was. He snorted at his gullibility. Granted, I havent heard an approved composition, much less yours, played on the sensory organ, Killashandra began in casual accents, but I was tremendously impressed by your performance the other evening. The musical one. The time, the place, the ambiance Not so fast, Lars Dahl. I was a trained musician before I became a crystal singer. I can be a critical auditor and when I heard your music, I didnt know you as well as I do now, so that is an unbiased assessment. If by any chance the Stellar who lodged the complaint with the Artists Association had had you in mind, I second his concern. Lars regarded her with a genuine surprise. You would? What music training did you have? I studied for ten years at the Fuerte Music Center. Voice. Lars nearly lost grip on the tiller and before he had altered the course, the Pearl yawed in the rough seas, throwing Killashandra against him You were the soprano that night? Yes. She grinned. I recognized your tenor at the barbecue. Where did you learn Baleefs Voyagers? And the Pearl Fishers

"O what have they done?" said bold Robin Hood,

argument with a flick of his bony fingers. Music is an art form which we were able to bring with us, within the mind. It is intangible And what is communication, then? Can it be touched? Smelt? Tasted? Torkes stared at her so fiercely that Killashandra was made aware of the fact that not only had she dared to interrupt an Elder but she had argued with him. She sensed rather than saw Ampriss intense amusement then, in the blink of his eyes, when Torkes was faced with the unpalatable realization that a Heptite Guild-member, an invited specialist urgently required by his planet, held equal status with himself. Of course, Ampris said, breaking the heavy silence that ensued, the organ was developed by an Optherian for Optherian purposes and is, in fact, unique to our planet. Yes, yes, quite so, Torkes mumbled just as a mellow chime discreetly ended the reception. Torkes made an adroit escape. So, one does not dispute with you Elders here? Killashandra asked, watching him move off through the throng. It is good for us, I assure you, Ampris replied with a chuckle. Fortunately Torkes is more flexible than he sounds, for when he changes Seats, he becomes totally committed to his immediate responsibility. When Killashandra looked quizzical, he added: We Elders change our duties every four years, so as not to become too narrow in our understanding of the overview. I see. Then you are wiser than your years, Ampris said, for I cannot believe that an administrator who is tone deaf can effectively guide Music: or that an Elder who cannot integrate should have charge of the Treasury. However, the governmental mechanism is so weighty that four years of mismanagement generally produce no more than annoying miscalculations and minor blunders easily corrected. The brilliance of the Founding Fathers of Optheria is once more unquestionably elucidated. Thyrol appeared, respectfully inclining his upper body at his interruption. Elder Ampris, Guildmaster Ree, if you will proceed to the dining chamber? The beauty of the hall, the elegantly set table and Elder Ampriss earlier comment deceived Killashandra into anticipating a far better meal. Although presented in appealing style, the miniscule portions did not appeased Killashandras heavy appetite. Nor was she offered enough of any one food to make a definition of a digital camera positive identification of its constituents or savor its taste. The courses were accompanied by beverages which were so bland that the water had more zest to it and not a brew or a ferment among them. Killashandras exasperated sigh caught the attention of Elder Pentrom, her right-hand dinner partner. Something is amiss? he asked politely and then stared for a brief moment at her clean plate. He was but halfway through the food on his. Doesnt Optheria produce brews, or vintages or something with more taste than these, Elder Pentrom? You mean an alcoholic beverage? he said, as if she had made a particularly obscene suggestion. Killashandra favored him with a longer look and decided that with his prim mouth, sharp chin, and tiny eyes, no other reaction could have been expected. Indeed I do mean alcoholic beverages. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word she said, Alcohol is essential to the proper metabolic function of a crystal singer. I have never heard that in all my years as Medical Supervisor of this planet. Have you encountered many crystal singers in your career? Piqued by yet another dogmatic encounter, Killashandra discarded any semblance of tact. These people needed a set-down and she was in the enviable position of being able to give it with impunity. In actual fact, no Then how can you possibly dispute my statement? Or question my requirements? This, and she waved a scornful hand at the goblet before her, bilge That beverage is a nutritious liquid, carefully combined to supply the adult daily requirements of vitamins and minerals to ensure No wonder it tastes so revolting. And may I point out that any brewmaster worth his license provides the same vitamins and minerals in a form palatable enough to satisfy the inner man as well. The Medical Supervisor hitched his chair back, throwing his serviette on the table in preparation for harangue, and suddenly they were the center of attention. Young woman Spare me your condescension, Elder, Killashandra replied as she rose gracefully to her feet and glared down at him. She swept the table with a reproving look. I shall retire to my apartment until such time as my dietary requirements can be met with enough food she flipped over her empty plate to satisfy my appetite and sufficient alcoholic beverages to keep my metabolism functioning. Good evening! In the

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;

It was Jackstraw who heard it firstit was always Jackstraw, whose hearing was an even match for his phenomenal eyesight, who heard things first. Tired of having my exposed hands alternately frozen, I had dropped my book, zipped my sleeping-bag up to the chin and was drowsily watching him carving figurines from a length of inferior narwhal tusk when his hands suddenly fell still and he sat quite motionless. Then, unhurriedly as always, he dropped the piece of bone into the coffee-pan that simmered gently by the side of our oil-burner stovecurio collectors paid fancy prices for what they For the safety of Edward and England they fell: imagined to be the dark ivory of fossilised elephant tusksrose and put his ear to the ventilation shaft, his eyes remote in the unseeing gaze of a man lost in listening. A couple of seconds were enough. "Aeroplane," he announced casually. "Aeroplane!" I propped myself up on an elbow and stared at him. "Jackstraw, you've been hitting the methylated spirits again." "Indeed, no, Dr Mason." The blue eyes, so incongruously at

That I 'll hit a mark a hundred rod,

but his classic features were too perfect to project a hint of his character or temperament. He made his rounds, a slight smile curving his perfect lips, well aware that he had only to nod to capture whichever girl, or girls, he fancied. Lanzecki might not have been handsome in the currently fashionable form but his face was carved by character and he exuded a magnetism that was lacking in the glorious young man. Nevertheless, Killashandra toyed with the idea of luring the perfect young man to her side; rejection might improve his character no end. But to achieve that end she would have had to discard her shy student role. She discovered an unforgivable lack in the Athenas appointments the first time she dialed for Yarran beer. It was not available, although nine other brews were. In an attempt to find a palatable substitute, she was trying the third, watching the energetic perform a square dance, when she realized someone was standing at her table. May I join you? The man held up beakers of beer, each a different shade. I noticed that you were sampling the brews. Shall we combine our efforts? He had a pleasant voice, his ship-suit was well cut to a tall lean frame, his features were regular but without a distinguished imperfection; his medium length dark hair complimented a space tan. There was, however, something about his eyes and a subtle strength to his chin that arrested Killashandras attention. Im not a joiner myself, he said, pointing one beaker at the gyrating dancers, and I noticed that you arent, so I thought we might keep each other company. Killashandra indicated the chair opposite her. My name is Corish von Mittelstern. He put his beers down nearer hers as he repositioned the chair to permit him to watch the dancers. Killashandra turned ever slightly away from him, not all that confident of the remission of resonance in her body, though why she made the instinctive adjustment she didnt know. I hail from Rheingarten in the Beta Jungische system. Im bound for Optheria. Why, so am I! She raised her beer in token of a hand clasp. Killashandra Ree of Fuerte. Im Im a music student. The Summer Festival. Then a puzzled expression crossed Corishs face. But they have a Fuertan brew Oh, that old stuff. I might have to travel off-season and economy to get to Optheria but Im certainly not going to waste the opportunities of trying everything new on the Athena. Corish smiled urbanely. Is this your first digital camera ay wal-mart interstellar trip? Oh, yes. But I know a lot about traveling. My brother is a supercargo. On the Blue Swan Delta. And when Mother told him that I was making the voyage, he sent me all kinds of advice and Killashandra managed a tinkling giggle and warnings. Corish smiled perfunctorily. Dont ignore that sort of advice. Fuerte, huh? Thats a long way to come. I think Ive spent half my life traveling already, Killashandra said expansively while she tried to compute how long she ought to have been traveling if her port of embarkation had been Fuerte. She hadnt done enough homework. Though she couldnt imagine that Corish would know if she erred. She took a long sip of her beer. This is a Bellemere, but its too sour for me. The best beer in the galaxy is a Yarran brew. Yarran? She regarded Corish with keener interest. If Corish came from Beta Jungische, he was a long way from a regular supply of Yarran beer. Killashandras curiosity rustled awake. The Yarran brewmasters have no peers. Surely your brother has mentioned Yarran beer? Well, now, its possible that he has, Killashandra said slowly, as if searching her memory. But then, he told me so much that I cant remember half. She was about to giggle again and then decided that, not only did her giggle nauseate herself but it might repel Corish and she wanted to satisfy this flicker of curiosity about him. Why are you traveling to Optheria? Family business, sort of. An uncle of mine went for a visit and decided to become a citizen. We need his signature on some family papers. Weve written several times and had no reply. Now, he could be dead but I have to have the proper certification if he is, and his print and fist on the documents if he isnt. And you have to come all the way from Beta Jungische for that? Well, theres a lot of credit involved and this isnt a bad way to go. He enscribed a half circle with his beaker, including the ship as well as the dancers, and smiled at Killashandra over the rim as he sipped. This Pilsners not all that bad, really. What have you there? She went along with Corishs adroit change of subject and with the beer sampling. Although singing crystal brought with it an inexhaustible ability to metabolize alcohol without noticeable affect, she feigned the symptoms of intoxication as she confided her fake history to the Jungian, whenever

"0 what shall I do?" said Robin Hood then,

distasteful wrinkling of the nose as he caught the foul stench of the gangrene, and he had hunched back on his heels, gently replacing the covers over the sick boy. "You speak the truth," he said softly. "We are not barbarians. I have no quarrel with a dying man. Leave him there." He rose to his feet, walked slowly backwards. "The rest of you outside." The snow had stopped altogether, Mallory saw, and stars were beginning to twinkle in the clearing sky. The wind, too, had fallen away and was perceptibly warmer. Most of the snow would be gone by midday, Mallory guessed. Carelessly, incuriously, he looked around him. There was no sign of Casey Brown. Inevitably Mallory's hopes began to rise. Petty Officer Brown's recommendation for this operation had come from the very top. Two rows of ribbons to which he was entitled but never wore bespoke his gallantry, he had a formidable reputation as a guerrilla fighterand he had had an automatic rifle in his hand. If he were somewhere out there. . . . Almost as 'if he had divined his hopes, the German smashed them at a word. "You wonder where your sentry is, perhaps?" he asked mockingly. "Never fear, Englishman, he is not far from here, asleep at his post. Very sound asleep, I'm afraid." "You've killed him?" Mallory's hands clenched until his palms ached. The other shrugged his shoulder in vast indifference. "I really couldn't say. It was all too easy. One of my men lay in the gully and moaned. A masterly performancereally pitiablehe almost had me convinced. Like a fool your man came to investigate. I had another man waiting above, the barrel of his rifle in his hand. A very effective club, I assure you. . . ." Slowly Mallory unclenched his fists and stared bleakly down the gully. Of course Casey would fall for that, he was bound to after what had happened earlier in the night. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself again, cry "wolf" twice in succession: inevitably, he had gone to check first. Suddenly the thought occurred to Mallory that maybe Casey Brown had heard something earlier on, but the thought vanished as soon as it had come. Panayis did not look like the man to make a mistake: and Andrea never made a mistake; Mallory turned back to the officer again. "Well, where do we go from here?" "Margaritha, and very shortly. But one thing first." The German, his own height to an inch, stood squarely in front of him, levelled revolver at waist 8.0 camera digital megapixel samsung height, switched-off torch dangling loosely from his right hand. "Just a little thing, Englishman. Where are the explosives?" He almost spat the words out. "Explosives?" Mallory furrowed his brow in perplexity. "What explosives?" be asked blankly, then staggered and fell to the ground as the heavy torch swept round in a vicious half-circle, caught him flush on the side of the face. Dizzily he shook his head and climbed slowly to his feet again. "The explosives." The torch was balanced in the hand again, the voice silky and gentle. "I asked you where they were." "I don't know what you are talking about." Mallory spat out a broken tooth, wiped some blood off his smashed lips. "Is this the way the Germans treat their prisoners?" he asked contemptuously. "Shut up!" Again the torch lashed out. Mallory was waiting for it, rode the blow as best he could: even so the torch caught him heavily high up on the cheekbone, just below the temple, stunning him with its jarring impact. Seconds passed, then he pushed himself slowly off the snow, the whole side of his face afire with agony, his vision blurred and unfocused. "We fight a clean war!" The officer was breathing heavily, in barely controlled fury. "We fight by the Geneva Conventions. But these are for soldiers, not for murdering spies" "We are no spies!" Mallory interrupted. He felt as if his head was coming apart. "Then where are your uniforms?" the officer demanded. "Spies, I saymurdering spies who stab in the back and cut men's throats!" The voice was trembling with anger. Mallory was at a lossnothing spurious about this indignation. "Cut men's throats?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "What the heli are you talking about?" "My own batman. A harmless messenger, a boy onlyand he wasn't even armed. We found him only an hour ago. Ach, I waste my time!" He broke off as he turned to watch two men coming up the gully. Mallory stood motionless for a moment, cursing the ifi luck that had led the dead man across the path of Panayisit could have been no one elsethen turned to see what had caught the officer's attention. He focused his aching eyes with difficulty, looked at the bent figure struggling up the slope, urged on by the ungentle prodding of a bayoneted rifle. Mallory let go a long, silent breath of relief. The left side of Brown's face was caked with blood from a gash above the temple, but he was otherwise unharmed. "Right! Sit down in the snow,

"O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son?

Guildmember, you did not eat much of the evening meal, perhaps a light supper The variety on the catering unit seems geared to student requirements unless you, having spent time here, can make a suggestion. Indeed I would be delighted to, Guildmember. Lars located several more as they moved through the suite to the two bedrooms. He peered into the first bathing room and grinned broadly at her. May I draw you a bath? An excellent idea. She strode to what was evidently the one room that had been left unmonitored. Lars began filling the tub, having turned the taps on full. He reached into his tunic and extracted an innocuous metal ball. A deceiver, Father calls it. It distorts picture and sound we can be quite free once its operating. And when we leave the suite, he grinned, miming the device returned to his pocket itll drive their technicians wild. Wont they realize that the distortion only works when were here? I suggest that tomorrow you complain about being monitored in the bedroom. Can we cope with just one free room? He began to undress her, his expression intense with anticipation. Two, Killashandra corrected him with a coy moue as the bright and elegant overall Teradia had chosen for her fell in a rainbow puddle at her feet. It was, of course, thoroughly soaked with the water displaced when Lars overbalanced her into the tub. When they had sated their appetites sufficiently, Killashandra idly described wet circles on the broad expanse of Larss chest. I think that with the best motives in the world, I have placed you in an awkward situation. Beloved Killashandra, when you sprang that, and he aptly mimicked her voice, I have no fear of being assaulted with Captain Dahl beside me, I nearly choked. I felt you quaking, but I didn t know if it was laughter or outrage. And then suggesting that someone else had instigated the attack to implicate islanders Killashandra, I wouldnd have missed that for anything. You really got mine back on the flatulent fardling. But watch him, Killa. Hes dangerous. Once he and Torkes start comparing notes They still have to get that organ fixed in time for all those lucky little composers to practice their pieces. Im here and even if a replacement is coming, its the old bird-in-the-hand. Yes, and theyve got to have done all the Mainland concerts to ensure a proper Optherian attitude toward visitors. Proper attitude? Mainland concerts? What do rating on digital cameras you mean? Lars held her slightly away from him in the capacious bath, reading her face and eyes. You dont know? You dont really know why that organ is so important to the Elders? Well, I do know that the set-up will produce an intense emotional experience for the listener. It verges on illegal manipulation. Lars gave a sour laugh. Verges? It is. But then you would only have seen the sensory elements. The subliminal units are kept out of sight, underneath the organ loft. Subliminals? Killashandra stared at Lars. Of course, ninny. How do you think the Elders keep the people of Optheria from wanting any of the marvels that the visitors tell them about? Because theyve just had a full dose of subliminal conditioning! Why do you think people who prefer to exercise their own wits live in the islands? The Elders cant broadcast the subliminals and sensories. Subliminals are illegal! Even the sensory feedbacks border on illegality! Lars, when I tell the FSP this Why do you think my father was sent to Optheria? The FSP wants proof! And that means an eyeball on the illegal equipment. Its taken Fathers group nearly thirty years to get close enough. Then you werent here just to learn to play that blasted thing? Playing the blasted thing is the only way to get close enough to it to find out where the subliminal units are kept. Comgail did. And died! Youre suggesting he didnt suicide? Lars shook his head slowly. Something Nahia said during the hurricane confirmed my suspicion that he hadnt. You see, I knew Comgail. He was my composition tutor. He wasnt a martyr type. He certainly wanted to live. He was willing to risk a lot but not his life. Nahia mentioned that hed asked Hauness to provide him with rehab blocks. A good block and Hauness is the best there is prevents the victim from confessional diarrhea and a total loss of personality. Comgail had been so above reproach all the time hed been at the Conservatory that not even a paranoid like Pedder would have suspected him of collusion with dissidents. But, for shattering the manual, Comgaild automatically be sent to rehab. He had prepared himself for that. He wasnt killed by a crystal fragment, Killa, he was murdered by it. I think it was because he had found the access to the subliminal units. Subliminals!

In fighting, hath tumbid me in."

and altered to fit the new world. Words might be changed, tempo, harmony, but the joy in listening, in joining the group singing was not: it struck deep nostalgic chords. Despite her musical sophistication, despite her foreswearing that same background, there was no way Killashandra could have remained silent. Indeed, not to participate in the evening would have marked her as antisocial. For the Angel Islanders, singing was a social grace. Nor was the singing simple, for the islanders added embellishments to choruses and songs, six-part harmonies and intricate descants. Lars Dahl functioned as both stage manager and conductor, pointing to the people expected to rise and sing or perform on their instruments: performing to a high degree of musical competence on such unexpected instruments as trumpet, a woodwind that looked like a cross between an oboe and an ancient French horn, and on a viola with a mellow, warm tone that must have arrived with the early settlers. The hand drums were played with great skill and showmanship, the three drummers executing a whirling dance in time to their intricate rhythms. Even when the rest of the audience was not actively participating, their attention was rapt, and their reaction to the occasional mistake immediate and understanding. There were songs about polly planters: one sung by two women, humorously itemizing the necessary steps to make one polly plant produce everything needed by their family. Another tune, sung by a tall thin man with a deep bass voice, told of the trials of a man bent on catching an ancient granddaddy smacker fish which had once demolished his small fishing boat with a negligent flick of its massive tail. A contralto and a baritone sang a sad haunting ballad on the vicissitudes of gray fishing and the vagaries of that enormous and elusive quarry. Youve dallied long enough, Lars, you and Olav sing it now, a man demanded from the shadows at one point. A wave of cheering and handclapping seconded that order. Grinning amiably, Lars nodded, beckoning to someone seated to Killashandras left. The man who came to stand beside Lars had to be related to him for their features were similar, if differently arranged. Though the older man had a thin, long face, the nose was the same, and the set of the eyes, the shape of the lips, and the firm chin. Neither man could really be called handsome, but both exuded the same unusual quality of strength, determination, and confidence that made them stand out as individuals. A respectful silence fell and the instruments digital and slr and camera began the overture. Killashandra had a good musical memory: she could hear a composition once and remember not only the theme, if there was one, but the structure. If she had studied the score in any detail, she would know the composer and performances, what different settings or arrangements the music had had over the years, and possibly which Stellars had performed it and where. Before the men began to sing, she recognized the music. The words had been altered but they suited the locality: the search for the lost and perfect island in the mists of morning, and the beautiful lady stranded there for whose affections the men vied. Lars beautiful tenor paired well with the older mans well produced baritone, their voices in perfect balance with each other and the dynamics of the music. Nevertheless, at songs end Killashandra stared at Lars in amazement. He had the most outrageous gall until she also remembered that he had been required to sing it, however appropriate it might also be to her circumstances. And Lars Dahl had not had the grace to look abashed. Why should he? The performer in her argued with her sense of personal outrage. The music was beautiful, and so obviously a favorite of the islanders that the last chorus trailed off into reverent silence. Then the baritone held out his hand, into which was placed a twelve stringed instrument that he presented to Lars Dahl. The Music Masters may not have approved your composition for the Summer Festival, Lars, but may we at least hear it? Plainly the request distressed Lars Dahl, for his mouth twitched and he had ducked his head against the compelling level gaze. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, reluctantly accepting the instrument. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he strummed a chord to test the strings. Lars did not look at Olav, though he could not refuse the older man s request, nor did he look out at the audience. His expression was bleak as he inhaled deeply, concentrating onward to the performance. The rankling disappointment, the pain of that rejection, and the sense of failure which Lars had experienced were as clear to Killashandra as if broadcast. Her cynical evaluation of him altered radically. She was possibly the only one in the entire assembly who could empathize, could understand and appreciate the deep and intense conflict he had to overcome at that moment. She also could approve heartily of the professionalism in him that

And thou, who tell'st me to forget,

crankcase, transmission and differential were all but locked solid in lubricating oil that had lost all power to lubricate anything and had been turned into a super viscous liquid with the consistency and intractability of some heavy animal glue. Even with two of us bringing all our weight to bear on the starting handle it was impossible to turn even one cylinder over the top. We made to light the paraffin blow-torches but they, too, were frozen solid: paraffin freezes at just over -50, and even at -40 it still flows like heavy gear-case oil. We had to thaw them out with a petrol blow-torch, then place all five of them on wooden boxes and behind canvas aprons to retain the heat, two to thaw out the crankcase, two for the gear-box and transmission and the last for the differential. After an hour or so, when the engine had begun to turn fairly easily and we had brought out the heavy battery which had been thawing out by the stove, we tried again. But it gave no sign of life at all. None of us, not even Corazzini whose Global tractors were all diesel-powered, was an expert in engine maintenance, and this was when we came very close to despair. But despair was the one emotion we couldn't afford, and we knew it. We kept the blow-torches burning, returned the battery to the stove, removed and cleaned the plugs, eased the frozen brushes in the generator, stripped and removed the petrol lines, thawed them and sucked out the frozen condensation by mouth, scraped away the ice from the carburettor intake and returned everything in place. We had to remove our gloves for most of this delicate work, the flesh stuck to metal and pulled off like the skin of an orange when we removed our hands, even the backs of our fingers became burnt and blistered from casual knocks on metal, blood oozed out from under our fingernails only to coagulate in the freezing air, and our lips, where they had touched the copper petrol feeds, were swollen and puffed and blistered. It was brutal, killing work, and in addition to the work our arms and legs and faces were almost constantly frozen, despite frequent visits to the stove to thaw ourselves out. It was murderousbut it was worth it. At six-fifteen, two and a quarter hours after we had begun, the big engine coughed and spluttered into life, missed, coughed again, caught and settled down into a steady even roar. I felt my split lips cracking into a painful grin under my mask, thumped Jackstraw and Corazzinifor the moment quite forgetting that the latter might be one of the killerson the back, turned and went kodak digital camera trade in in for breakfast. Or what passed for breakfast. It was little enough, heaven knewcoffee, crackers and the contents of a couple of corned beef tins shared among the twelve of us, the lion's share going to Theodore Mahler. That left us with only four more tins of beef, four cans of vegetables, about ten pounds of dried fruit, a little frozen fish, a small tin of biscuits, three packets of cereal andit was the only thing apart from coffee of which we had an adequate supplyover twenty tins of Nestle's unsweetened milk. We had, of course, seal meat for the dogsJackstraw thawed some out for them over the stove while we had breakfastand the fried meat of young seal is palatable to a degree. But the dogs had first claim on that. It was more important to preserve their strength than our own: should the engine of the Citroen break down completely, our last hope lay with the dogs. Breakfast over and the dogs fed, we started off just before moonset, Corazzini driving, with the long trailing plume of our exhaust vapour, milk-white but thick as smoke in that bitter air, stretching out far behind us, bar-straight, almost as far as the eye could see in the waning light of the moon. I had arranged that the drivers should change over every fifteen minutesas long a period as any person could stand in that unheated and largely unprotected cabin. I had heard of a case in the Antarctic where a driver had sat so long in an exposed tractor that his numbed and frozen fingers had locked so immovably that the steering-wheel had had to be unbolted and brought inside still clutched in the driver's grasp before the hands could be thawed sufficiently to release the wheel: I didn't want anything of that kind happening to us. As soon as we were under way I had a look at Mahler, and his appearance certainly did nothing to inspire any great confidence in his chances. Even although he was fully dressed, lying in an eiderdown sleeping-bag that was zipped all the way to his chin, and covered in blankets, his pinched face was a mottled blue-white and he was shaking continuously with the cold, a handkerchief between his teeth to prevent their chattering. I reached for his wrist. The pulse was very fast, though it seemed strong enough: but I couldn't be sure, so much skin had been sloughed or burnt off in the past two or three hours that I'd lost all sensitivity in my fingertips. I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile. "Well, how do you

A certain portion of uncertain paper:

up through our two plate glass skylights: but as always they were completely opaque, covered with a thick coating of rime and dusting of snow. I looked away from the skylights across to where Joss, our young Cockney radioman, was stirring uneasily in his sleep, then back to Jackstraw. "Still hear it?" "Getting louder all the time, Dr Mason. Louder and closer." I wondered vaguelyvaguely and a trifle irritably, for this was our world, a tightly-knit, compact little world, and visitors weren't welcomewhat plane it could be. A met. plane from Thule, possibly. Possibly, but unlikely: Thule was all of six hundred miles away, and our own weather reports went there three times a day. Or perhaps a Strategic Air Command bomber testing out the DEW-linethe Americans' distant early warning radar systemor even some civilian proving flight on a new trans-polar route. Or maybe some base plane from down by Godthaab. "Dr Mason!" Jackstraw's voice was quick, urgent. "It's in trouble, I think. It's circling uslower and closer all the time. A big plane, I'm sure: many motors." "Damn!" I said feelingly. I reached out for the silk gloves that always hung at night above my head, pulled them on, unzipped my sleeping-bag, swore under my breath as the freezing air struck at my shivering skin, and grabbed for my clothes. Half an hour only since I had put them off, but already they were stiff, awkward to handle and abominably coldit was a rare day indeed when the temperature inside the cabin rose above freezing point. But I had them onlong underwear, woollen shirt, breeches, silk-lined woollen parka, two pairs of socks and my felt cabin shoesin thirty seconds flat. In latitude 72.40 north, 8000 feet up on the Greenland ice-cap, self-preservation makes for a remarkable turn of speed. I crossed the cabin to where no more than a nose showed through a tiny gap in a sleeping-bag. "Wake up, Joss." I shook him until he reached out a hand and pushed the hood off his dark tousled head. "Wake up, boy. It looks as if we might need you." "Whatwhat's the trouble?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared up at the chronometer above his head. "Midnight! I've been asleep only half an hour." "I know. Sorry. But get a move on." I recrossed the cabin, passed by the big RCA transmitter and stove, and halted in front of the instrument table. The register showed the wind ENE, velocity 15 knotsnear enough 17 miles per hour, on a night like this, with the ice-crystals and panoramic digital still camera video camcorder drift lifting off the ice-cap, clogging and slowing up the anemometer cups, the true speed was probably half as much again. And the pen of the alcohol thermograph was running evenly along the red circle of 40 degrees below zero72 degrees of frost. I thought of the evil combination of these two factors of wind and cold and felt my skin crawl. Already Jackstraw was silently climbing into his furs. I did the samecaribou trousers and parka with reindeer fur trimmed hood, all beautifully tailored by Jackstraw's wifesealskin boots, woollen mittens and reindeer gloves. I could hear the plane quite clearly now, and so too, I could see, did Joss. The deep even throb of its motors was plain even above the frantic rattling of the anemometer cups. "It'sit's an aeroplane!" You could see that he was still trying to convince himself. "What did you think it wasone of your precious London double-deckers?" I slipped snow-mask and goggles round my neck and picked up a torch from the shelf beside the stove: it was kept there to keep the dry batteries from freezing. "Been circling for the past two or three minutes. Jackstraw thinks it's in trouble, and I agree." Joss listened. "Engines sound OK to me." "And to me. But engine failure is only one of a dozen possible reasons." "But why circle here?" "How the devil should I know? Probably because he can see our lightsthe only lights, at a guess, in 50,000 square miles. And if he has to put down, which God forbid, he stands his only chance of survival if he puts down near some human habitation." "Heaven help them," Joss said soberly. He added something else, but I didn't wait to hear. I wanted to get up top as quickly as possible. To leave our cabin, we had to use a trap-door, not an ordinary door. Our cabin, a prefabricated, sectioned structure that had been hauled up from the coast on tractor sleds during the month of July, was deep-sunk in a great oblong hole that had been gouged out from the surface of the ice-cap, so that only the top few inches of its flat roof projected above ground level. The trap-door, hinged at both ends so that it could open either upwards or downwards, was reached by a short steep flight

That split his head in twain.

about his, he smiled down at her. All I need is a half-days start on any pursuit; no one will ever find me in the islands. Trag managed to look skeptical without changing a muscle in his face. Not this time, I think. This time the islanders are to be disciplined to a final and total obedience to the Optherian Council. They have to catch us first, Lars said calmly, although anger flared in his eyes and his fingers tightened on Killashandras. In an abrupt change he shrugged. The threat of wholesale reprisal is scarcely new. Trag has that warrant Killashandra suggested but caught the obstinate set of Larss face. May I remind you, Killashandra, Trag said, that a Federated Council warrant is not a writ one exercises with impunity. If I am forced to use it, Lars, and whoever else it includes, would be charged with your abduction and subject to the authority of the FSP Council. If I dont press charges, once theyre off Optheria If you perjure yourself in a Council Court, Killashandra Ree, not even the Heptite Guild can rescue you from the consequences. I repeat, and listen to me this time. Lars interrupted firmly, jiggling Killashandras arm for her attention, I only need a head start and there isnt a captain on this planet who could catch me. Look, Trag, its not your affair, but if youre willing to disorganize the Conservatory projector, would you consider doing others? There are quite a few two-manual organs on the Mainland. To have two sabotaged will already be a considerable boon, but the more Mainlanders who are freed from subliminal manipulation, the more chance wed all have of surviving until the Federated Council moves. The Elders can blandly puff on about disciplining islanders, but first they have to jizz enough Mainlanders up to the point of a punitive action. Mainlanders are a passive bunch, after so many years of the pap theyve been subjected to. He grinned maliciously. You saw last night which of the three pressures the audience responded to the most Not the martial pride! So, psyching a punitive force up would take time, a clever program, and sufficient audience saturation. The smaller the net the subliminals cast, the longer it will take the Elders to mount any sort of expedition to the islands. Now, and Lars leaned forward urgently, you and Killa have to make a report to the Federated Council? Well, I would find it hard to believe that any Council acts fast. Right? Trag nodded. Speed is determined by the physical threat to the planet digital camera no batteries involved. Not to the population? Killashandra asked, surprised at Trags emphasis. Trag shook his heavy head. Populations are easy to produce, but habitable planets are relatively scarce. He indicated that Lars should continue. So, your report will be considered, deliberated upon, and then? It may indeed take time, Lars Dahl, but the Federated Council has outlawed the use of subliminal conditioning. There is absolutely no question in my mind that action will be taken against the Optherian Elders. A government which must resort to such means to maintain domestic satisfaction has lost the right to govern. Its Charter will be revoked. Theres no danger that you and Killashandra will be restrained from leaving? Lars asked abruptly. Why should we be? Can they have any suspicion that someone knows that they maintain control by illicit means? Comgail did, Killashandra said, even if he was killed before he could pass on the information. Whoever killed the man must wonder if Comgail had accomplices. Lars shook his head positively. Comgails only contact was Hauness and Hauness didnt reveal that until after Comgails death. I knew that some drastic measure was planned. Not what it was. Tell me, Lars, Trag asked, does any one suspect that you are aware of the subliminals? Lars shook his head vigorously. How? I always pretended the correct responses after concerts. Father didnt warn me until I was sent to the Mainland for my education. His warning was accompanied by a description of the retribution I would suffer, from him as well as the Council, if I ever revealed my knowledge unnecessarily. Lars grinned. You may be sure I told no one Besides your father, who knows? Trag asked. Or dont you know that? Lars nodded. Hauness and his intimates. As a trained hypnotherapist, he caught on to the subliminals but had the sense to keep silent. It is quite possible that others in his profession know it, but if they do, they dont broadcast it either. What could they do? Especially when I doubt that many Optherians know that subliminals are against Federated Law! The last was spoken in a bitter tone. Who would suspect that music, the Ultimate Career on Optheria, can be perverted to ensure the perpetuation of a stagnant government? Then there was the almost insoluble problem of trying to get word off Optheria, to

I am Robin Hood, thy master good,

knowledge and experience of arctic travel, even lacking, with two or three exceptions, the endurance and sheer muscular strength to cope with the savagery of the Greenland ice-cap? I couldn't even begin to guess. But whatever else they were lacking in at that moment, it wasn't volubility: the life-giving warmth of the brandy had had the unfortunate side effect of loosening their tongues. Unfortunate, that is, from my point of view: they had a hundred and one questions to ask, and they seemed to think that I should have the answer to all of them. More accurately, they had only half a dozen questions to ask, with a hundred and one variations of these. How was it possible for a pilot to veer so many hundreds of miles off course? Could the compasses have gone wrong? Could the pilot have had a brain-storm? But then surely both co-pilot and second pilot would have known something was wrong? Could the radio have been damaged? It had been a bitterly cold afternoon even when they had left Gander, was it possible that some of the naps and controls had iced up, forcing them off course? But if this were the case, why hadn't someone come to warn them of the possibility of the crash? I answered all of their questions as best I could but these answers were all to the same effect, that I didn't really know anything more about it than they did. "But you said some time ago that you did, perhaps, know one thing more than we did." It was Corazzini who put the question, and he was looking at me shrewdly. "What was that, Dr Mason?" "What? Ah, yes, I remember now." I hadn't forgotten, but the way things were shaping up in my mind I'd had second thoughts about mentioning it, and had time to think up a plausible alternative. "I need hardly tell you that it's nothing that I actually know, Mr Corazzinihow could I, / wasn't in the planejust a reasonably informed guess in the absence of all other solutions. It's based on the scientific observations made here and in other IGY stations in Greenland, some of them over the past eighteen months. "For over a year now, we have been experiencing a period of intense sun-spot activitythat's one of the main interests of the IGY yearthe most intense of this century. As you may know, sun-spots, or, rather, the emission of solar particles from these sun-spots, are directly responsible for the formation of the aurora borealis and magnetic storms, both of these being related to disturbances in the ionosphere. These disturbances can and, actually, almost invariably do interfere with radio transmission and fuji finepix f810 digital cameras reception, and when severe enough can completely disrupt all normal radio communications: and they can also produce temporary alterations of the earth's magnetism which knock magnetic compasses completely out of kilter." All of which was true enough as far as it went. "It would, of course, require extreme conditions to produce these effects: but we have been experiencing these lately, and I'm pretty sure that that's what happened with your plane. Where astral navigationby the stars, that isis impossible, as it was on a night like this, you are dependent on radio and compasses as your two main navigational aids: if these are knocked out, what have you left?" A fresh hubbub of talk arose at this, and though it was quite obvious that most of them had only a vague idea what I was talking about, I could see that this idea was finding a fair degree of ready acceptance, satisfying them and fitting the facts as they knew them. I saw Joss gazing at me with an expressionless face, looked him in the eye for a couple of seconds, then turned away. As a radio operator, Joss knew even better than I that, though there was still some sun-spot activity, it had reached its maximum in the previous year: and as an ex-aircraft radio operator, he knew that airliners flew on gyrocompasses, which neither sun-spots nor magnetic storms could ever affect in the slightest. "We'll have something to eat now." I cut through the buzz of conversation. "Any volunteers to give Jackstraw a hand?" "Certainly." Marie LeGarde, as I might have guessed, was first on her feet. "I'm by way of being what you might call a mean cook. Lead me to it, Mr Nielsen." "Thanks, Joss, you might give me a hand to rig a screen." I nodded at the injured pilot. "We'll see what we can do for this boy here." The stewardess, unbidden, moved forward to help me also. I was on the point of objecting -1 knew that this wasn't going to be nicebut I didn't want trouble with her, not yet. I shrugged my shoulders and let her stay. Half an hour later, I had done all I could. It indeed hadn't been nice, but both the patient and the stewardess had stood it far better than I had expected. I was fixing and binding on a stiff leather helmet to protect the back of his head and Joss was strapping him down, inside the sleeping-bag, to the stretcher, so that he couldn't toss around and hurt himself, when the stewardess touched my arm. "Whatwhat do you think

Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,

It was Jackstraw who heard it firstit was always Jackstraw, whose hearing was an even match for his phenomenal eyesight, who heard things first. Tired of having my exposed hands alternately frozen, I had dropped my book, zipped my sleeping-bag up to the chin and was drowsily watching him carving figurines from a length of inferior narwhal tusk when his hands suddenly fell still and he sat quite motionless. Then, unhurriedly as always, he dropped the piece of bone into the coffee-pan that simmered gently by the side of our oil-burner stovecurio collectors paid fancy prices for what they We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown. imagined to be the dark ivory of fossilised elephant tusksrose and put his ear to the ventilation shaft, his eyes remote in the unseeing gaze of a man lost in listening. A couple of seconds were enough. "Aeroplane," he announced casually. "Aeroplane!" I propped myself up on an elbow and stared at him. "Jackstraw, you've been hitting the methylated spirits again." "Indeed, no, Dr Mason." The blue eyes, so incongruously at

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

the increasingly long stretches of soft snow, but mainly because of the weather, which was deteriorating rapidly. The wind had now risen to something better than thirty miles an hour, it carried with it a blinding wall of flying ice-filled drift, and, even though it was directly behind us, it made things troublesome for the driver. For all the others except Smallwood it made the conditions intolerable: had the temperature been what it was only twenty-four hours previously, none of us, I am sure, would have survived that trip. I would have thought that with either Smallwood or Corazzini driving and the other navigating from the dog-sled we would have had a chance, slender though it might be, to overpower them or at least make good our escape. But Smallwood never offered even a shadow of a chance of either. Corazzini drove all the time, with the radio direction finder headphones clamped to his ears, so that compass navigation became an inaccurate superfluity. Smallwood sat alone in the back of the tractor cabin, his gun unwaveringly trained on the rest of us who were crammed aboard the big tractor sled, ten feet to the rear of him: when the snow eventually became too heavy he stopped the tractor, detached the portable searchlight and mounted it, facing aft, in the rear of the tractor cabin; this had the double advantage of illuminating us so that he could clearly see us even through the drift and making certain that none of us tried to drop off the sled, and of blinding us so that we were quite unable to see what he was doing, even to see whether he was watching us at all. It was frustrating, maddening. And, for good measure and to prevent any desperate attempt at escape in the occasionally blinding flurries of snow, he brought Margaret and Helene up into the cabin and bound their hands: they were the surety for our good conduct. That left eight of us on the tractor sled, Theodore Mahler and Marie LeGarde stretched out in the middle, three of us sitting on each side. Almost immediately after we had moved off and pulled a pair of tarpaulins over ourselves for what meagre shelter they could afford, Jackstraw leaned across and tapped me on the shoulder with something held in his hand. I reached up and took it from him. "Corazzini's wallet,1 he said softly. For all the chance of his being overheard by either Smallwood or Corazzini above the roar of the engine and the voice of the gale, he could have shouted out the words. "Fell from his pocket when Zagero knocked him down. He didn't see it go, but I didsat on top silicone cover canon sd850 digital camera of it while Smallwood told us to squat in the snow." I stripped off my gloves, opened the wallet and examined its contents in the light of the torch Jackstraw had also passed acrossa torch with the beam carefully hooded and screened to prevent the slightest chink of light escaping from under the tarpaulin: at this time, Smallwood had not yet switched on the searchlight. The wallet provided us with that last proof of the thoroughness, the meticulous care with which these two men had provided themselves with false but utterly convincing identities: I knew that whatever Corazzini's name was it wasn't the one he had given himself, but, had I not known, the 'N.C." stamped on the hand-tooled morocco, the visiting cards with the inscribed 'Nicholas Corazzini' above the name and address of the Indiana head office of the Global Tractor Company, and the leather-backed fold of American Express cheques, each one already signed 'N. R. Corazzini' in its top left-hand corner, would have carried complete conviction. And, too late, the wallet also presented us, obliquely but beyond all doubt, with the reason for many things, ranging from the purpose of the crash-landing of the plane to the explanation of why I had been knocked on the head the night before last: inside the bill-fold compartment was the newspaper cutting which I had first found on the dead body of Colonel Harrison. I read it aloud, slowly, with infinite chagrin. The account was brief. That it concerned that dreadful disaster in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where a commuters' train had plunged through an opened span of the bridge into the waters of Newark Bay, drowning dozens of the passengers aboard, I already knew from the quick glance I had had at the cutting in the plane. But, as I had also gathered in the plane, this was a follow-up story and the reporter wasted little time on the appalling details: his interest lay in another direction entirely. It was 'reliably reported', he said, that the train had been carrying an army courier: that he was one of the forty who had died: and that he had been carrying a 'super-secret guided missile mechanism'. That was all the cutting said, but it was enough, and more than enough. It didn't say whether the mechanism had been lost or not, it most certainly never even suggested that there was any connection between the presence of the mechanism aboard the train and the reasons for the crash. It didn't have to, the cheek-by-jowl