Southtrap

Wegger started, as if his thoughts had been elsewhere. 'Of course.'

He used his left hand — his sound working hand, his gun-hand — to assist me. We prised open the fingers. The palm was empty.

Brunton's flash blinded me. Then, for the first time, I felt a surge of nausea. The muscles that had contracted those fingers had done so from the agony of the knife taking his life.

'Now a couple of general shots of the environment.' Brunton rose and began shooting again. When he had finished, he remarked, 'That should tell the story.'

'It's a story I don't want told to anyone,' I said. That's not a request but an order. In a situation like this the captain is the law. He has unlimited authority. I could even put you in irons if I wanted to.'

Brunton replied with a peculiar half-grin, 'I believe you would, too.'

Thanks,' I said. 'I wasn't meaning to pull my rank, but it's a good thing to know where you stand. This is a serious situation.'

'I'll say. I'll keep this roll of film safer than fine gold. Ten million dollars' worth.'

It was as if an electric shock had passed through Wegger. The muscles of his neck corded and bulged and his hand went to his gun pocket as if it had a life of its own.

Brunton's keen eye didn't miss it. 'Have I said something wrong?'

Wegger laughed it off, not very convincingly. 'That's a lot of gold to compare it to.'

Brunton eyed him for a long moment. Then he said to me. 'If you don't want me for anything more, I'll be getting back to bed. With these shorties I'll land myself a severe dose of Antartic testicle.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

When he had gone, I said to Wegger, 'We'll lock the body in the sick-bay. 'We'll leave him strapped. This plank is the best thing to carry him on anyway. Petersen, go and find a blanket, will you?'

Petersen was only too glad to leave.

Wegger asked, 'Burial at sea?'

That was going too fast for me. I fobbed off the question. 'He's halfway prepared already.'

'We'd better unstrap his arms,' Wegger went on. 'Easier later for sewing him into canvas. Rigor mortis and all that.'

I didn't like Wegger's tacit assumption of what would be done. I felt he was subtly pressuring me.

'Leave him how he is,' I ordered. 'I'll decide all that later.'

When Petersen, returned with a couple of blankets it was Wegger and I who carried the deadweight board after we had covered and wrapped the body. Petersen led, with instructions not to use my torch in the unlighted section between the stern and amidships deck-houses. I didn't want any stray passengers to witness our passage. Perhaps my caution was a mistake. Shortly after leaving the locked door behind us Wegger tripped on something on deck. The body's weight transferred to his damaged right hand. I did a quick snatch to save the board from falling. I sensed him fumbling near the head for a moment or two to find a grip. Then he regained his balance.

We hurried from the deck into the lighted corridor where the luxury accommodation was situated. The sick-bay was at its forward end. I glanced at Number 3 as we hastened past. Linn's cabin.

The key was in the sick-bay door. I locked it and pocketed the key after we had stowed Holdgate safely inside.

I dismissed Wegger and Petersen. 'See you on the bridge. I take over at midnight.'

'I'll stand your watch if you like, sir,' suggested Wegger. 'I won't sleep much anyway.'

No more would I, I thought grimly. 'Thanks,' I said, 'but it won't be necessary.'

The more I saw of Wegger, the less I understood the man. There had been times during the photographing of the body when he'd been all screwed up with tension. Now he seemed completely relaxed, in spite of what he said about not sleeping. But Petersen was different. If I hadn't thought it bad for his morale I would have ordered him to bed. He looked ghastly.

When they had gone I made my way to my cabin. I sat down at the desk and started to frame a radio signal. I didn't get far. How do you convey in a few crisp sentences that a man has been murdered? I didn't address it either. To whom? The police? The port authorities? The Weather Bureau? I crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. The Quest's radio wasn't working anyway because of the radio black-out, but I'd have to try to get through to someone.

I hurried to Persson's cabin in the officers' quarters and hammered on his door. I would have to tell him the truth. A radio operator is to a captain as his own thoughts. Persson answered, full of sleep and surprise.

'See here,' I told him. 'There's been an emergency. Can you raise Cape Town on the radio?'

He shook his head. 'No. Reception's been getting worse all day, the further South we go. It was hopeless when I packed up a few hours ago. No sferics, even.'

I recalled Smit's remarks about the black-out. I didn't want to try and teach Persson his job. On the other hand if I put an expert like Smit on his back it would only cause friction.

'Can I come in?' I asked. 'What I have to say is confidential.'

'Sorry, sir. I must be half-asleep still.'

I went in. The cabin was warm and smelt of cigarettes and the indefinable odour of male-aloneness. A pin-up whose breasts ballooned close to the pillow hung above his bunk.

'What are sferics?'

'Bits and pieces of noises, sir. They used to be called static. They don't mean anything. Or, rather, they do if…'

I cut him short. 'You mean the radio's stone dead?'

'Yes, sir. Both receiving and transmitting. I've heard about this sort of thing but never experienced it.'

'What about the radio-telephone?'

'It's got no range at all, sir. I couldn't reach the mainland that way.'

I glanced at the door to make sure we could not be overheard. 'Listen, Persson. A man was killed aboard tonight. I've got to get a signal out somehow.'

He said quietly, as if only a part of him were listening while the rest was wrestling with the insoluble technical problem, 'I see, sir. Then the R/T's our only hope. Maybe…'

'Yes?'

The US Navy works the KC-4 USV station from McMurdo at certain times as a ham station for direct voice talks with the men's relatives back home. It's a powerful transmission. Maybe — only maybe — I could patch a signal from us into it.'

'What would that mean, if you did?'

'It would mean someone talking from America to a guy in McMurdo would get the message. Or vice versa.'

'Where — I mean, what station in the United States?'

'An ordinary telephone sir. That's the way it works?'

'I don't follow the ins and outs of this, but if you think you can establish contact with the outside world, go ahead right away,' I replied. 'If you can't, I want you to stand a round-the-clock radio watch until you do. Got that?'

'I'll be up in the radio shack in about five minutes.'

'Good. If you make a contact, let me know at once. I'll be on the bridge after midnight. In my cabin until then.'

I went from Persson direct to the engine-room. As I clattered down the ladder into the oil-warm comfort and racket of the place, MacFie's assistant started up in astonishment from a nudey magazine and a cup of coffee. A captain doesn't usually pay social calls to the engine-room in the middle of the night.

'I want to see Reilly,' I told him. 'He's on duty?'

The man pointed. His attitude asked, 'More trouble?' but he didn't speak.

Reilly. was dripping oil out of an outsize oil-can with the fixed zombie-like look machine-men develop in the presence of continual noise. His brown overall was open to a stained singlet. It was as warm down here as all that.

I tapped him on the shoulder. He started as if he'd been shot. I gestured to a corner away from the other men. Not that they could have overheard with all that noise going on.

When we were there, I said, 'Reilly, I want you to tell me something.'

His eyes were bitter under their pale lashes. 'I said all I had to say to the Chief. You can't get anything more out of me.'