Killer

Simon was at the top several minutes before the doctor, and he spent the time in exploring the little platform he found there. It was only about six feet by six, and, with the fog at that moment close around him he did not venture too near to the seaward side, but sure enough, on the crest of the upslope there was the tip of a rust-red stain stretching down one side. He knelt to examine it and chipped a bit free with his axe. The stain went down into the ice far beneath the sliver he had broken free. He held it up awkwardly in his mitten and looked through it at the sky. As he did so, the first intimation of a wind disturbed the fog and the sky brightened.

The doctor puffed up beside him. “Let’s have a look.”

He knelt beside the younger man and quickly uncovered his hands. Simon handed him the piece he had cut, and he studied it for a moment.

“By Jove, you know this is interesting . . .” He became quite animated. “You can see how it might have happened, can’t you? I dare say it’s not an uncommon occurrence. A cloud of krill very near the surface, snap icing, and there you are. But this is something else again! Unless my eyesight’s even worse than I thought, this stuff isn’t surface krill at all, it’s from the Deep Scatter Layer.”

“What’s that?”

“The Deep Scatter Layer? Oh, it’s found in most oceans. It’s a layer several hundred feet down unusually rich in marine life which rises and falls depending on the height of the sun during the day. At midday, it’s at its deepest; but it rises during the night. I suppose the Deep Scatter Layer in the Arctic Ocean would be a pretty shallow one; the ocean itself is only a little more than six hundred feet deep in most places.”

He began to follow the stain along the edge of the little platform towards the seaward-facing cliff. “Yes. It goes right across. Now I wonder if this ice has just been stood on its end, or has been forced up as a whole? I mean, if this cliff is a section straight down through the cloud of krill it could be a fascinating study.”

The wind stirred the fog fitfully, stripping it away for several hundred yards on the seaward side. Quick rested his shoulder against the axe-handle and sat, gazing out over the dull grey water.

He was hypnotised by the movement of the grey sea and the bedraggled-looking floes that filled it like pieces of white bread cast out for giant ducks. The doctor scrabbled to the very edge of the cliff looking down towards the sea. He was on hands and knees, looking over at the stain as it receded down the sheer face.

“I say, I think it goes green down there. That would be something! Banded by colour!” He leaned further out, straining for a clear view of the striations stretching down six feet to the little ledge. Another inch. Another.

“Hey, Simon, hold my feet would you?” The doctor half turned his head to look up at Simon, and his glasses fell off. As they fell, he instinctively grabbed for them, losing his grip on the ice, and tumbling out, one hand straight in front of him reaching over the sea, the other behind him clutching at the ice. His body rolled over to the right. His left hand gripped. He dangled with his back to the ice, right arm still out, as his feet sought the ledge. He was aware of a great roaring. He was trying to turn and face the ice, so he could get his toes in the ledge and grip with both hands. His half-blind eyes swept the ocean and the fog, unable to distinguish between them, but he saw the great torpedo shape which suddenly thrust its black and white length into the air before him.

Simon Quick jerked out of his reverie as the doctor called for him to hold his feet. He turned in time to see the old man hanging over the cliff, backside in the air. And then, with horrifying suddenness he was gone. Simon was on his feet in an instant and had covered the distance in two strides. The old man was hanging by his left hand, his right hand thrust out as though trying to grasp the fog, his heels drumming against the ice.

Then the whale exploded out of the water, hurling itself up through twenty feet, turning until the liquid-pitch eye could see them clearly.

Quick froze.

The whale’s mouth opened. Its teeth were dull yellow. As it began to fall back into the water, Quick began to move again. He fell to his knees at the edge, one leg on either side of the twisted left hand. He leaned down, his eyes busy on the slate water, grasped the old man’s wrist and pulled. The doctor was still trying to turn round and grasp the edge with his right hand. Quick heaved again but the old man remained where he was. “My hand,” he cried, “Simon, my hand!”

Quick looked down between his knees. Warren’s left hand was frozen fast in the snow.

“Jesus H . . .” He was up again and running for the axe.

The doctor had found the ledge with his heels now, and was able to get some of the pressure off the twisted wrist. His eyes were full of tears, so he was doubly blind. His mouth was open, gasping in the icy, fog-laden air.