The fog opened like a theatre curtain, and directly ahead there was a
heart-stopping vista of green and blue ice, with darker strata of
glacial mud banding cliffs which disappeared into the higher layers of
fog above as though reaching to the very heavens. The sea had carved
majestic arches of ice and deep caverns from the foot of the cliff.
There they are! Nick snatched the binoculars from the canvas bin and
focused on the dark specks that stood out so clearly against the
backdrop of glowing ice.
No/ he grunted. Fifty emperor penguins formed a bunch on one of the
flat floes, big black birds s nearly as tall as a man's shoulder; even
in the lens, they were deceptively humanoid.
Warlock passed them closely, and with sudden fright they dropped on to
their bellies and used their stubby wings to skid themselves across the
floe, and drop into the still and steaming waters below the cliff. The
floe eddied and swung on the disturbance of Warlock's passing.
Warlock nosed on through solid standing banks of fog and into abrupt
holes of clear air where the mirages and optical illusions of
Antarctica's flawed air maddened them with their inconsistencies,
turning flocks of penguins into herds of elephants or bands of waving
men, and placing in their path phantom rocks and bergs which disappeared
again swiftly as they approached.
The emergency transmissions from the raft faded and silenced, then
beeped again loudly into the silence of the bridge, and seconds later
were silent again.
God damn them/David swore quietly and bitterly, his cheeks pink with
frustration. Where the hell are they?
Why don't they put up a flare or a rocket? And nobody answered as
another white fog monster enveloped the ship, muting all sound aboard
her.
I'd like to try shaking them up with the horn, sir/ he said, as Warlock
burst once more into sparkling and blinding sunlight. Nick grunted
acquiescence without lowering his binoculars.
David reached up for the red-painted foghorn handle above his head, and
the deep booming blast of sound the characteristic voice of an
ocean-going salvage tug, reverberated through the fog, seeming to make
it quiver with the volume of the sound. The echoes came crashing back
off the ice cliffs of the bergs like the thunder of the skies.
Samantha held the solid-fuel. stove in her lap using the detachable
fibreglass lid of the locker as a tray. She was heating half a pint of
water in the Aluminium pannikin, balancing carefully against the
wallowing motion of the raft.
The blue flame of the stove lit the dim cavern of plastic and radiated a
feeble glow of warmth insufficient to sustain life. They were dying
already.
Gavin Stewart held his wife's head against his chest, and bowed his own
silver head over it. She had been dead for nearly two hours now, and
her body had already cooled, the face peaceful and waxen.
Samantha could not bear to look across at them, she crouched over the
stove and dropped a cube of beef into the water, stirring it slowly and
