alistairmaclean.nightwithoutend-第19部分

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evitably　must：　no　person　could　hope　to　survive　for　any　great　length　of　time；　without　shelter　of　some　kind；　in　the　deadly　cold　of　that　arctic　night。
　
　But　it　wasn't　too　late　yet。　The　wind　had　been　blowing　almost　directly　in　my　face　as　I　had　been　running：　all　I　had　to　do　was　walk　back；　keeping　it　on　my　left　cheek；　and　I　would　be　bound　to　hit　the　line　of　bamboos　at　right　angles；　and　the　chances　of　my　passing　unwittingly　between　two　of　them；　with　the　light　of　my　torch　to　help　me；　did　not　exist。　I　turned；　took　one　step；　then　two；　then　halted　in　my　tracks。
　
　Why　had　I　been　lured　out　here　away　from　the　bamboo　line？　Not　so　that　she　could　thereby　escape　me…she　couldn't　do　it　that　way。　As　long　as　we　both　lived；　we　were　both　utterly　dependent　on　the　cabin　and　would　have　to　meet　there　sooner　or　later。
　
　As　long　as　we　both　lived！　God；　what　a　fool　I　was；　what　a　veriest　amateur　at　this　game。　The　only　way　she　could　escape　me；　really　and　permanently　escape　me；　was　if　I　no　longer　lived。　I　could　be　shot　down　here　and　no　one　would　ever　know。　And　as　she　had　stopped　running　before　I　had　and　been　first　to　switch　out　her　torch；　she　must　have　a　much　better　idea　of　my　position　than　I　of　hers。　And　these　two　rash；　incautious　steps　I　had　taken　had　given　her　a　new　and　even　more　accurate　bearing　on　my　position。　Perhaps　she　was　only　feet　away　now；　lining　her　gun　up　for　the　kill。
　
　I　switched　on　my　torch　and　whirled　round　in　a　plete　circle。　Nobody　there；　nothing　to　be　seen　at　all。　Only　the　frozen　feathers　of　the　snow　brushing　my　cheeks　in　the　blackness　of　the　night；　the　low　moaning　lament　of　the　soughing　south　wind　and　the　faint　rustle　of　ice　spicules　brushing　their　blind　way　across　the　iron…hard　surface　of　the　ice…cap。
　
　Swiftly；　softly；　I　moved　half　a　dozen　long　steps　to　my　left。　My　torch　was　out　now；　and　I'd　been　crazy　ever　to　switch　it　on　in　the　first　place。　Nothing　could　have　been　better　calculated　to　betray　my　position…the　light　of　a　torch；　seen　head　on；　can　be　seen　at　twenty　times　the　farthest　distance　that　its　beam　will　reach。　I　prayed　that　a　flurry　of　snow　had　hidden　it。
　
　Where　would　the　attack　e　from…downwind；　so　that　I　could　see　nothing　in　that　blinding　snow；　or　upwind；　so　that　I　could　hear　nothing？　Downwind；　I　decided…on　the　ice…cap　one　could　move　as　silently　as　on　a　tar…macadam　road。　The　better　to　hear；　I　pulled　the　parka　hood　off　my　head：　the　better　to　see；　I　slipped　up　my　goggles　and　stared　out　unwinkingly　under　my　visored　hands。
　
　Five　minutes　passed；　and　nothing　happened…if；　that　is；　the　freezing　of　my　ears　and　forehead　could　be　called　nothing。　Still　no　sound；　still　no　sight　of　anything：　the　strain；　the　nerve…racking　expectancy　could　not　be　borne　for　much　longer。　Slowly；　with　infinite　care；　I　moved　off　in　a　circle　of　about　twenty　yards　diameter；　but　I　saw　nothing；　heard　nothing；　and　so　well　adjusted　now　were　my　eyes　to　the　darkness；　so　well　attuned　my　ears　to　the　ice…cap's　mournful　symphony　of　sound；　that　I　would　have　sworn　that　had　there　been　anyone　there　to　be　seen　or　heard；　I　would　have　seen　or　heard　them。　It　was　as　if　I　were　alone　on　the　ice…cap。
　
　And　then　the　appalling　truth　struck　me…I　was　alone。　I　was　alone；　I　realised　in　a　belated　and　chilling　flash　of　understanding；　because　shooting　me　would　have　been　a　stupid　way　of　disposing　of　both　myself　and　my　dangerous　knowledge…the　discovery　of　a　bullet…riddled　body　on　the　ice…cap　during　the　brief　hours　of　daylight　would　have　provoked　a　hundred　questions　and　suspicions。　Much　more　desirable；　from　the　killer's　point　of　view；　would　be　my　dead　body　without　a　trace　of　violence。　Even　the　most　experienced　man　can　get　lost　in　a　snow…storm　on　the　ice…cap。
　
　And　I　was　lost。　I　knew　I　was　lost；　I　was　convinced　of　it　even　before　I　got　the　wind　on　my　left　and　walked　back　to　the　line　of　bamboo　poles。　The　bamboos　were　no　longer　there。　I　made　a　wide　circle；　but　still　found　nothing。　For　at　least　twenty　yards　back　in　the　direction　of　the　plane；　and　probably　all　the　way　towards　the　cabin；　the　poles　had　been　removed；　that　slender　series　of　markers　which　alone　meant　all　the　difference　between　safety　and　being　irrecoverably　lost　on　the　ice…cap；　were　no　longer　there。　I　was　lost；　really　and　truly　lost。
　
　For　once；　that　night；　I　didn't　panic。　It　wasn't　just　that　I　knew　that　panic　would　be　the　end　of　me。　I　was　consumed　by　a　cold　fury　that　I　should　have　been　so　ignominiously　tricked；　so　callously　left　to　die。　But　I　wasn't　going　to　die。　I　couldn't　even　begin　to　guess　what　the　tremendously　high　stakes　must　be　in　the　murderous　game　that　this　incredibly　ruthless；　wickedly…deceptive　gentle…faced　stewardess　was　playing；　but　I　swore　to　myself　that　I　wasn't　going　to　be　one　of　the　pawns　that　were　going　to　be　brushed　off　the　table。　I　stood　still；　and　took　stock。
　
　The　snow　was　increasing　now；　thickening　by　the　minute；　building　up　into　a　blizzard　with　visibility　cut　down　to　a　few　feet：　the　yearly　precipitation　of　the　ice…cap　was　no　more　than　seven　or　eight　inches；　and　it　was　just　my　evil　luck　that　it　should　fall　so　heavily　that　night。　The　wind　was　southerly；　or　had　been；　but　in　that　fickle　Greenland　climate　there　was　no　knowing　what　minute　it　might　back　or　veer。　My　torch　was　failing：　continual　use　plus　the　cold　had　left　it　with　a　pale　yellowish　beam　that　reached　not　much　more　than　a　few　yards：　but　that　was　the　limit　of　visibility；　anyway；　even　downwind。　The　plane；　I　calculated；　was　not　much　more　than　a　hundred　yards　away；　the　cabin　six　hundred。　My　chances　of　stumbling　upon　the　latter；　flush　as　it　almost　was　with　the　surface　of　the　ice…cap；　were　no　better　than　one　in　a　hundred。　But　my　chances　of　finding　the　plane；　or　what　came　to　the　same　thing；　the　great　quarter…mile　trench　that　it　had　gouged　out　in　the　frozen　snow　when　it　had　crash…landed；　were　far　better　than　even：　it　was　impossible　that　it　could　have　already　been　filled　in　with　drift。　I　turned　until　I　had　the　wind　over　my　left　shoulder　and　started　walking。
　
　I　reached　the　deep　furrow　in　the　snow　inside　a　minute…I'd　switched　off　my　torch　to　conserve　the　battery　but　my　stumble　and　heavy　fall　as　I　went　over　the　edge　was　intimation　enough…turned　right　and　reached　the　plane　in　thirty　seconds。　I　suppose　I　might　possibly　have　lasted　out　the　night　inside　the　wrecked　fuselage；　but　such　was　my　singleness　of　purpose　at　the　moment　that　the　thought　never　occurred　to　me。　I　walked　round　the　wing；　picked　up　the　first　of　the　bamboos　in　the　dim　beam　of　my　torch　and　started　to　follow　them。
　
　There　were　only　five　altogether。　After　that；　nothing。　Every　one　of　the　others　had　been　removed。　These　five；　I　knew；　pointed　straight　towards　the　cabin　and　all　I　had　to　do　was　to　keep　shifting　the　last　of　the　five　to　the　front；　lining　it　up　straight　with　the　others　in　the　light　of　my　torch；　and　it　would　be　bound　to　bring　out　to　the　cabin。　Or　so　I　thought；　for　perhaps　ten　seconds。　But　it　was　a　task　that　really　required　two　people　to　achieve　anything　like　accuracy：　what　with　that；　the　feebleness　of　my　rapidly　dying　torch　and　the　hopeless　visibility；　I　couldn't　be　accurate　within　two　or　three　degrees　at　the　least。　That　seemed　a　trifle；　but　when　I　stopped　and　worked　it　out　I　discovered　that；　over　the　distance；　even　one　degree　out　would　have　put　me　almost　forty　feet　off　course。　On　a　night　like　that；　I　could　pass　by　the　cabin　ten　feet　away　and　never　see　it。　There　were　less　laborious　means　of　mitting　suicide。
　
　I　picked　up　the　five　sticks；　returned　to　the　plane　and　walked　along　the　furrowed　trench　till　I　came　to　the　depression　where　the　plane　had　touched　down。　The　250…foot　line　of　the　antenna；　I　knew；　was　roughly　four　hundred　yards　away；　just　a　little　bit　south　of　west…slightly　to　my　left；　that　was；　as　I　stood　with　my　back　to　the　plane。　I　didn't　hesitate。　I　strode　out　into　the　darkness；　counting　my　steps；　concentrating　on　keeping　the　wind　a　little　more　than　on　my　left　cheek　but　not　quite　full　face。　After　four　hundred　long　paces　I　stopped　and　pulled　out　my　torch。
　
　It　was　quite　dead…the　dull　red　glow　from　the　filament　didn't　even　register　on　my　glove　six　inches　away；　and　the　darkness　was　as　absolute　as　it　would　ever　bee　on　the　ice…cap。　I　was　a　blind　man　moving　in　a　blind　world；　and　all　I　had　left　to　me　was　the　sense　of　touch。　For　the　first　time　fear　came　to　me；　and　I　all　but　gave　way　to　an　almost　overpowering　instinct　to　run。　But　there　was　no　place　to　run　to。
　
　I　pulled　the　drawstring　from　my　hood　and　with　numbed　and　clumsy　hands　lashed　together　two　of　the　bamboos　to　give　me　a　stick　seven　feet　in　length。　A　third　bamboo　I　thrust　into　the　snow；　then　lay　down　flat；　the　sole　of　my　boot　touching　it　while　I　described　a　plete　circle；　flailing　out　with　my　long　stick　into　the　darkness。　Nothing。　At　the　full　stretch　of　my　body　and　the　stick　I　stuck　the　last　two　bamboos　into　the　snow；　one　upwind；　the　other　downwind　from　the　central　bamboo；　and　described　horizontal　flailing　circles　round　both　of　these。　Again；　nothing。
　
　I　gathered　up　the　bamboos；　walked　ten　paces　more；　and　repeated　the　performance。　I　had　the　same　luck　again…and　again　and　again。　Five　minutes　and　seventy　paces　after　I　had　stopped　for　the　first　time　I　knew　I　had　pletely　missed　the　antenna　line　and　was　utterly　lost。　The　wind　must　have　backed　or　veered；　and　I　had　wandered　far　off　my　course：　and　t