Killer

“Right,” said Ross, squeezing off a shot at last at the larger of the two on the ice. The bullet went into the top of its head, glanced off the heavy skull, and did little damage. The whale screamed. The echo grew and lingered, like a chord struck on the piano with the loud pedal down.

Job was up and running for the supply tent. He had just reached it when two whales drove up together against the thick ice beneath his feet with a terrifying explosion of sound. He fell to his knees, his eyes drawn anxiously to the huge cliffs of the berg with their dusting of ice crystals glistening like a cloud of caster sugar. His gaze followed the crags up and up until he could feel the skin roll at the back of his neck. A great gout of snow fell off the heights of the nearest terrace as though an invisible shovel of mammoth proportions had hurled it over. Job watched as it fell down the dizzy cliffs and rumbled ominously into the water. The cliff stayed up.

The ice beneath him crashed and heaved again, smashing him out of his reverie. He reached into the tent, and took out the Remington. He slammed the breech open: it was ready to fire. He clicked the safety off, and began to run back across the ice. The high whip-crack of the Weatherby came again. The echoes began to grow. Again he glanced up at the berg, looming over them, seeming to give off a cold wind all of its own, so close now that when it heaved back, its underwater masses rose to grind against the northernmost reaches of the floe. The echoes of the Weatherby seemed to grow inside Job’s head, the sounding caves of ice were so near. He could see the webs of cracks on the glistening buttresses and towers.

BOOM!

The ice between the camp and the sea exploded again. Another head thrust into the light. Job slammed the Remington to his shoulder . . .

“JOB! NO!”

. . . and fired. The heavy, soft-nosed bullet destroyed the whale’s face. The echoes roared in the ice, working with those from the Weatherby so that the very air seemed to shake. Snow from the upper terraces fell through two hundred feet and more to thunder on to the floe itself. The sound roared and shuddered through its cycles, growing and dying. And the berg did not fall. But the whales, unafraid of the guns, were forced to withdraw to protect their delicate ears. Silence grew slowly, and remained.

“Christ!” Warren.

“That berg’s more solid than I thought.” Ross.

“Only just!” Job.

“But enough!” Quick. “Don’t you see? If we’re careful and fairly quiet, we could be all right on there!”

Silence.

“Christ, Colin; look around you! This is the thickest part of the floe, and they’re coming right through as though it was bloody tissue paper! What chance will we stand later, tomorrow, when it’s even thinner?”

A freak of wind and the berg caught the sound, demanding, “Thinner – thinner – thinner – thinner?” into silence.

Ross looked up at it. The slight friction as the underwater portion of the berg ground against the floe seemed to have slowed the speed of its passage, and turned it slightly. A perfect beach leading by gentle gradients up to an eminently suitable platform presented itself. Less than fifty yards away. Ross nodded, and the attempt was on.

Strangely, as though they had discussed it quite fully, each knew what to do. Kate got the longest roll of rope. Warren took both the guns. Job and Quick tore the crate containing the collapsible canoe open. Ross went up to the top of the hills at the north point of the floe. The canoe was big enough to take two men. It was made of canvas on steel box-struts and collapsed into three sections. It had paddles. They put it together quickly and efficiently as though fully practised.

“Give me the rifle just in case,” Quick said, “and a couple of good strong pegs. I’ll take the rope over and anchor it. Then we can ferry the stuff across fairly quickly. OK?”

“OK,” said Ross.

Quick took the Remington and the pegs, and climbed aboard. He felt good. He knew about boats the way Ross knew ice. He was at home here; knew what he was about. He began to paddle strongly; easily. The berg had moved away with surprising speed: they would have to work fast. He dug the paddle in deeper, surged out of the shadow of the iceberg. He had come about fifty yards. The nylon rope was not too heavy a drag because it floated. He slitted his eyes even behind the mask because of the sudden return to the golden brightness. Nor far now . . .

“SIMON!” Colin’s voice, surprisingly clear. Urgent. He looked back. The rope snapped taut, hurled him forward: Job had stopped paying out. Now he was pulling in feverishly. The stern, sharp as the bow, creamed through the water. Quick knelt in the waist of the boat, looking wildly round. Then, in the distance, he saw them: five huge fins in arrow formation, coming in at impossible speed.