them warmed up. What the hell could be wrong?
The engine began stuttering, as if something were caught in its throat, and he goosed the throttle to clear it. It roared, gagged, clattered wildly. Then, as if drowning on its own phlegm, it guttered out.
'Shit!'
He crawled behind his seat and lifted an access panel. There was nothing obviously wrong. No smoke. The fluids were normal. He checked the oil and there was plenty of that, too. It sounded like there was water or some other contaminant in the fuel.
Had that moron psychologist given him the wrong stuff? Reluctantly, he opened the cab again. The wind had risen, and although the temperature had climbed ten degrees with it, the cold's bite was worse than ever. Tyson was instantly chilled. He slammed the door shut and looked longingly back inside. Again that fifteen-degree drop, but this time there was no heater blowing to maintain cab temperature. Even as he watched, the mercury continued to slowly descend. Have to hurry!
If it was the fuel, the two filters should bleed it out. Maybe they needed to be emptied of water. Maybe they'd iced up. He crawled under the machine with a flashlight to open a panel and check the fuel line, muttering imprecations at every mush-minded beaker he'd ever met. Norse wouldn't know a carburetor from a camshaft, he was sure of it. Shining the light around, he was momentarily puzzled. Where the devil were the filters? It was like he'd never seen this machine before.
Then he looked closer and realized. The filters had been cut out of the line. Excised like a bad appendix. Snip, snip. The breaks had been bridged by tubing.
Dread realization began to descend. Well, well, Doctor Bob. Savior of the Pole. More mechanically savvy than I gave you credit for. And, with a little tune and lube, my judge, jury, and executioner.
If he got going again, he'd turn around and strangle the bastard.
Tyson crawled back out and stood in the wind, trying to think. He had to not just fix things, but fix them fast. He had to get that engine going before he froze.
He boosted himself up on the step and looked back in the cab. It was down to forty degrees. Tyson opened the door, fished out some chewing gum from the console, and shut it again. Then he dropped back to the snow.
His only hope was that the other fuel was good. How many cans could the fucker have doped? Tyson had no tubing to siphon the bad stuff out, and no drain hole. His only choice was to make his own. He opened the toolbox, took out a cold chisel-now, there's an appropriate name, he told himself- and placed it against the fuel tank. Then he swung with a hammer. It took a furious set of blows, which had the advantage of warming him, before he punched a hole through the dented tank. Diesel began running out onto the snow in a pulse like a cut artery, warmed by its proximity to the engine. Once it hit the snow it congealed.
What had Norse put in it? Water? Sugar? Some weird chemical shit?
He took out the gum, having to painfully bare his hand to unwrap it, and stuffed every stick into his mouth, chewing furiously. Then, slipping his glove back on, he began to break the other cans loose from the sled. Even if these worked, were there enough to get back to Amundsen-Scott? Would the others help him if he got there?
Cursing, clumsy from the cold, he got one top off after another. The wind kept rising, biting at him. Frantic, he left off for a minute to check the fuel tank. It was still emptying in a now-sluggish stream. He stepped up on the Spryte to look at the thermometer inside the cabin.
Eighteen degrees above zero. Heat was leaching from his survival capsule like gas from a balloon.
At last the fuel tank emptied. The area under the machine was slick with it, half frozen, a petroleum lake. He took the gum from his mouth and wedged it, steaming, over the hole he'd made. The gum wrapper went over that. Shit-poor work, but the cold instantly hardened his patch like putty.
Then he began lugging the newly opened cans to the opening and pouring them in. Diesel spilled on the side of the tank, streaming into the snow, and he didn't care. If he could light the damn diesel he'd get warm in a hurry, and that sounded almost pleasant right now. Baby will you light my fire…
He could hardly feel his damn feet.
But he couldn't afford a bonfire. He needed every drop to get back for a little counseling session with Robert Norse.
You saved 'em all, didn't you, Doctor Bob? Talked to me with sympathy just before you pushed me off the plank. So what's going to be your solution when there's another murder and you realize that, oops, Buck Tyson didn't do it? What happens to your tidy little social theories then?
At fifteen gallons he left off. Had to get the engine going before he froze. Once he had respite with the heater, he'd dump the rest in. That's if the engine started. If this crap wasn't as poisoned as the other batch. If just once in his pathetic life he'd get a single fucking break.
Tyson climbed in the cab and slammed the door. It was a relief to be out of the wind but the temperature inside was already close to zero. It was like escaping to a meat locker. Without hesitation he turned the key. Please. Please please me…
It cranked, stuttered, died.
He turned it again. The cab light dimmed as the engine labored.
And again.
Duh-duh-duh-duh.
He looked at the cab thermometer. Zero! Even with his body heat the temperature inside was falling like a rock. He needed heat, and fast.
It occurred to Tyson to use the radio. Not for rescue- there was no possibility of that- but just to inform Norse's many admirers at Amundsen-Scott base just how well and truly the psychologist had fucked over naive Dakota farm boy Buck Tyson. Wouldn't they like to hear about Norse's therapy in action? Of course, maybe they'd cheer that their ex-mechanic was about to turn into USDA-grade frozen- gee, the Doc sure took care of that little social problem- but they should at least know what their paranoia had led to, just to interrupt their slumber at night. And so he picked up the radio. Hello, this is your old buddy Buck and I'm about to die…
Click. Nothing. Not even static. He wormed under the dash. All the wires had been cut.
Checkmate, Jimmy. And you can't even flip over the game board, can you?
He flicked off all the lights and turned the key and cranked. And cranked. And cranked. There were a couple pops and snorts, just enough to give him a moment of cruel hope. But the damned engine wouldn't turn over. Wouldn't even properly fart.
Finally the batteries died. It was quiet and dark.
He turned on the flashlight kept close to his chest to avoid the cold draining its D cells and took another reading. Minus eight and still falling. Going for equilibrium with the great outdoors.
Well, this was it, then. His nowhere life had come to ground in nowhere.
He began to shiver.
Tyson knew his body would shake only so long. Then it would be out of energy like the Spryte's batteries, his core temperature dropping, a surrendering drowsiness taking over. How many hours of torture before that sleepy relief? Minutes, if he opened his coat. Which was worse?
Or he could find a match and try to light the mess outdoors. A quicker, more painful, pyre.
'What's it to be, Bucky? Fire or ice?'
Norse! Does that fucker have any idea what horror he's inflicted?
'Yep, Doc, you saved 'em all.'
Tyson considered, trying to think clearly. If he didn't burn himself up, they'd find him someday. Maybe piece together enough to determine what had happened. Maybe even catch that slimy psychologist and make him pay.
Maybe. Or maybe give Norse a medal.
He slammed open the door, letting the last of his heat escape. Best to get it over with.
Then he closed the cab again and settled deeper into his parka, trying by muscle strength to control his shivering. He couldn't, of course.
One last peek at the thermometer. Minus twenty-eight and accelerating. Plunging downward to match the bottomless cold outside.
Even at the bottom of the world, solitude can be interrupted by the telephone. Lewis's at Clean Air rang with
