Killer

He was pointing. Kate followed the line of his arm with her eyes and there, surprisingly close, were the three great black sails moving easily round the floe. As she watched, three clouds of breath exploded up as though at the same signal.

“What are they doing?” Simon.

“Swimming round us.” Job.

“I can see that! What are they doing?”

“That’s all they’re doing.” Colin.

“Why?”

“Perhaps they’re waiting for the others.” Job.

“Oh, Christ. You really think so?” Simon.

“Who knows?” Colin.

“Are they really that intelligent?” Simon.

“Yes.” Colin.

“Oh Christ.”

Silence.

“What’ll we do then?” asked Kate, conversationally.

“What can we do?” snapped Simon.

“Kill them,” she said.

“How?”

The sixty-four thousand dollar question.

“What’ve we got?” she asked, turning. Colin said nothing, but he was turning with her, going back to the camp.

“What’ve we got for what?” Simon called after them.

“To kill them with,” she yelled back.

“Three harpoons,” said Colin.

“The axe, if you’re going in that close.”

“Right.”

“The dynamite, of course. Is there any way we can use the bullets? I mean we’ve got no rifles, but we’ve got some ammo left.”

“I don’t know. We’d have to think.”

“It’s as well you’re a fast thinker.”

He gave a half-grunt, half-laugh. “Get the harpoons and the axe, would you? I’ll try and think up something for the bullets.”

The harpoons were lying in various places about the camp. No one had collected them since the fight with the walruses. The axe was back by the fire. She took them to Colin who was on his knees by the latrine tent.

“Excellent,” he said, and held up a red and white striped bundle. “Cut that, please.” She cut it carefully with the axe. “Thanks.”

“What is it?”

“What I’ve thought up.” He was pushing the red and white bundle into an empty baked beans tin. “All we need now is some way to aim it.”

Kate saw that he had simply taken half a dozen rounds of the Remington ammunition, wrapped them in quick burning fuse, and wedged them in the tin. An inch of the fuse stuck out of the middle.

“Right,” she said. “Something long. That thing’ll be dangerous.”

“Yes. The original two-edged sword.”

“A good name. But how do we aim it? I mean, it’s far too dangerous just to throw it. God knows which way round it’ll land.”

“I know, I know.” His eyes were busy. “Gottit. Get me a mug.”

“A mug?”

“Just do it.”

They were using tin mugs, of about average size, enamelled dark blue. Strong but light. She brought one. The tin just wedged into it, and when it was in it was tight. They tied it by the handle to the end of a three-foot piece of plank.

“There,” said Colin when they’d finished. “The tin’ll come to bits, the mug’ll split, the handle will definitely come off and the rope will break anyway, but not until after the bullets start to go off.”

“It’ll never take over from the A-bomb.”

He looked at her very seriously. “If you have to use it, ‘light the red touch paper, and . . .’ ”

“I know, ‘stand well back’.”

“No. Run like hell.”

“Right.”

Simon came up to them, gasping. He had run from the edge of the ice in less than ten seconds.

“They’ve gone,” he said. “They’ve dived. Job thinks they’re coming in . . .”

BOOM!

The floe jumped, water slopped out of the long crack under the net. The corpses of the walruses stirred. Job arrived.

BOOM!

The second blow was only an echo of the first, but the rotten ice to the south humped up, and the biggest of the killers came through, water streaming from its scarred face, breath exploding in a cloud behind it. The ice heaved and creaked ominously. The whale looked around balefully, then sank slowly. The body of the walrus nearest the hole slowly rolled over, apparently of its own volition, and vanished as the ice at the edge of the hole cracked and gave way beneath its bulk.

Then the three sails were back in formation, going silently round the floe.

“The dynamite,” said Job. “It’s our only chance now.”

“Cutting our own throats,” Colin warned.

“What else is there?” asked Simon.

“Nothing,” said Kate.

“So that’s that, then,” said Job. “Where is it?”

“Here.” Colin hefted the box over out of the shadow of the latrine tent, and snapped it open.

For a few moments they were silent, working quietly as a team, Kate holding the axe, Colin cutting short lengths of fuse, Job and Simon handling the dynamite like experts, fusing the stubby sticks and standing them up well clear of the box in its detachable tin lid. After they had done half a dozen, Job said, “Right.”

“Six enough?” asked Simon.

“I hope so.”

“The floe won’t stand any more,” said Colin as he got up, but he took up the box as well as the lid.

“If it stands these,” said Job.

Skirting the hole where the supply tent had been, they went out over the one hundred feet to the edge of the floe. This section, which had been the eastern edge of the floe, seemed to be the most solid platform still available to them. Colin put down the lid, and then the box with the fuse a little way from it – just in case.