Icy Clutches

narrative hook if it bit them on the ear. “lf there are no questions I'll go directly—'

He gritted his teeth at a barbaric yawp of a snore followed by several snuffles, all of this coming from Walter, who wriggled, rumbled, fussed, and then melted deeper into his chair, his head tipping backwards to the accompaniment of other, indescribable noises from his throat. For Walter, even sleep was a form of theater. Like a big dog he woke himself up with a snort, muttered and fussed some more, and settled into silence if not quite wakefulness. Reflections from the flames danced on his nose.

Tremaine glowered briefly at him—at the others, too, for good measure—and read on:

CHAPTER THREE.

July 26, 1960, 12:04 P.M.

In the United States Geological Survey Monitoring Station near Palmer, the needle of the seismograph stopped its gentle bobbing, hesitated, and then jerked sharply, scratching a series of spiky black lines onto the paper-covered drum.

Ranger Parnell Morgan watched the needle intently, but soon relaxed. As things went in this part of the world it wasn't much of a tremor; 4.1 on the Richter scale. Not the big one they'd been worrying about, just another little jiggle in a part of the world that averaged four a day. There would be no frantic telephone calls on this one, no buckled roadways or twisted bridges, no collapsed buildings or broken water mains.

The epicenter seemed to be somewhere in the Fair-weathers, in the uninhabited area north of Glacier Bay. A good place for it, he thought, and went back to the half-eaten tuna-fish sandwich on his desk.

Tremaine looked up, distracted by an impatiently jiggling foot. “Is something wrong, Dr. Fisk?'

Fisk stared back at him. “I was wondering,” he said, “just how necessary it is for us to sit through this nonessential material. Couldn't we—'

'I would hardly call it nonessential, Doctor,” Tremaine said tightly.

'What would you call it, essential? I mean, tuna-fish sandwiches, for God's sake. Tell us, was there mayonnaise on them? I can't stand the suspense.'

'Your point?” Tremaine said.

Fisk gnashed his teeth, Or something very close to it. “My point is that we're here to supply personal perspectives, aren't we? Well, for God's sake, why can't we simply skip over the background information and get on with the story of the expedition?'

Gerald Pratt took the pipe from his mouth and uttered his first words of the day. “Hear, hear,” he said pleasantly enough.

'No,” Anna said firmly. “I wish to hear everything.” She turned her head stiffly to fix Tremaine with a meaningful glare.

'Oh, me too,” Shirley said with that crooked, taunting smile. “I wouldn't want to miss a single, teeny word.'

'The question is moot,” Tremaine said grumpily. He hadn't liked that look of Anna's. “My understanding with Javelin requires that nothing be omitted...other than those events of which I and I alone have knowledge, of course.'

'Such as?” Anna said promptly.

Tremaine ignored her. “Now, if I may continue? Thank you. What you've heard up to now has been essentially a setting of the stage, a preface. At this point the book shifts to a first-person narrative—my own voice, naturally— and the tragic personal story of the expedition per se begins.” He smiled thinly. “I trust Dr. Fisk will be pleased.'

He waited, but Fisk chose not to respond, staring mumpishly into the fire instead.

Tremaine began to read again.

Had I any inkling of the trouble to come, I would have chosen very differently from among my graduate students for the crew. But who could tell then that Jocelyn Yount's limpid blue eyes were windows to a wanton and amoral personality that would eventually create so much animosity and bitterness among us? The first sign—

'Whoa,” Shirley said. “What was that again? About my sister's personality?'

Tremaine paused briefly before answering. Here, of course, was where things would begin to get difficult. Once again he wondered uneasily just how good an idea this “co-opting process” was. There was a great deal to be said against it, in his view; not least that it had been thought up by a lawyer.

'Miz Yount,” he said soothingly, understandingly, “I'm extremely sorry if this causes you distress, but surely you realize that I must be honest in my opinions, my perceptions.” He could, he reasoned, delete the “wanton” without any great loss, if necessary. He had been a little doubtful about it in the first place, truth to tell. But on the “amoral” he would stand firm. Literary integrity demanded it.

'Well, yeah, sure,” Shirley said. “Nobody's saying you shouldn't be honest, but that just isn't true, what you said. My sister was something else; she was an angel on earth, a—'

Anna barked a single note of laughter. “Some angel.'

Ah, good. He had Anna on his side on this one. As expected. His master plan for the week depended on playing them off against each other in different combinations.

Shirley stared at Anna, angry and off balance. “What are you talking about? You're crazy!” She turned back to Tremaine. “Hey, what's going on here? What are you trying to do?'