Killer

Ross was lost in thought. There was silence except for the wind and the ice falling in the restless tent. Then Ross said, “No. We go out and find him.” Jeremiah said nothing. After a little while Ross continued, “He’s coming in due east from here; or rather, he is if he picked up our last message. If he didn’t, then he’s coming in due east from our last transmission received at Edward. If that’s happened we’re dead anyway, so we might as well take the chance.” He was arguing with himself, still uncertain. He stared at the flickering blue flame of the paraffin stove, and it was that which finally made his mind up for him, for, as he watched, it changed colour, flared and died. “My God, they’ve taken the paraffin.”

They both stared, unbelieving, at the dead stove. As always, a pot of hot water stood on it, steaming slightly. Jeremiah reached quickly, and moved this precious thing to safety as Ross reached for the stove, and wrenched it open. It was dry. Empty. Drained. Quick, or Smith, or McCann, had carefully removed the paraffin to add to the life-saving store the three of them had taken with them to Camp 13. The act of a man terrified for his life. The most terrible thing a man could do out here. The ultimate crime: the theft of fire; the theft of heat; the theft of life. Without warmth they were dead. Without warmth a terrible race began between many forms of death. First, the slow, sleepy death by cold, dulling the mind, freezing the heart to sleep. Then there was thirst, for without heat, there was only ice to drink: ice so cold it froze to the lips, blistering them with an agony of frostbite until the face could stand no more. And hunger, for the food would be frozen like the water, and even if forced past the lips, it would freeze to the inside of the mouth and tongue, and the teeth, trying to chew it, would break before the ice broke.

All these spectres came in to replace Quick, Smith and McCann in the crowded cold of the tent, and Ross regarded them with sombre eyes. Then he turned to Jeremiah, and he said: “OK. We go.”

As soon as he came to his decision, they began to move. Jere­miah took meat, cooked but half-frozen, and put it in the hot water. When it was warm, he put it in a vacuum flask to stop it freezing again. Then he made soup from the now lukewarm water. He put it in another flask: there were two pints of it. Ross collected everything that he could fit into two knapsacks. He put one or two of the personal effects left by the others into his pockets, but he put the letters into his knapsack. When they had finished tidying up, they heaved up their knapsacks and Jeremiah forced his way out into the night. Ross went to turn the lamp off, but he stopped, and checked his watch. He had to fold the top of his mitten forward, the sleeves of his anorak, his heavy woollens, his shirt, his thermal underwear back, the top of his underglove forward. It was 9.30 am. Then he turned out the light, and crawled out after Jeremiah.

Inside the tent, the storm had seemed to be a terrible thing. Out here, the wind took Ross as he lurched to his feet, and sent him staggering until he slipped and fell. Jeremiah’s hands found him and helped him up, but he could hardly see Jeremiah, only feet away at the other end of the strong, steady arms. The freezing snow cut the whole world down to little more than the size of his head. When he looked down, his body became vague below his waist; the feet, with their heavy snowshoes, were totally invisible. He took out his luminous compass, but he had to press his wool-covered nose hard against its glass before he could see what it was reading. When he was facing due east, the wind was coming from his rear, due west.

“Sledges?” he screamed, out of curiosity. Jeremiah shook his head. Ross never discovered whether this meant none had been taken, none had been left, or he didn’t know.

Walking with the wind was easier than walking against it, but only just. They still staggered, hunched forward, almost completely blinded by the solid white fog. They went shoulder to shoulder then, the snow drifting against their backs, crystals flying in flags and pennants from their heads into the clearer air a little in front of them. They stumbled on, their feet sinking into the shallow snow, slithering on the treacherous ice; they fell, got up, walked, fell, got up. The sweat beaded their goggles, and froze on the glass. The fur around the edges of their hoods became spiky with ice. Soon they were as white as the snow itself, two silent shapes moving slowly over the uneven ice, doggedly, relentlessly. In the first six hours they covered perhaps three miles.