pointed for any necessary mental command, but now as he set the pin in the water his trembling hands failed him and the ingenious little compass supped beneath the surface and shot to the bottom of the deep crystal-clear pool. Pitt had time to grab it before it sank out of reach, but he could only sit there and stare transfixed for wasted seconds before he reacted to the setback. Then it was too late, far too late, for his hope for finding his way out of Iceland's barren island plateau was lost.
His puffed eyes were almost totally closed, his legs cramped from exhaustion, and his breath coming in agonized gasps that broke the clear still air, but he struggled to his feet and stumbled forward, urged on by an inner strength he didn't know existed. For the next two hours he blundered along in a void all of his own. Then, in the middle of climbing a small eight-foot embankment, his body turned off the switch to consciousness and collapsed like a deflated balloon just inches from the top of the ridge.
Pitt knew he had crossed over the threshold from physical sensibility to the inertness of twilight sleep. But something didn't quite jell. His body was dead; all pain was gone, all feeling, even human emotion seemingly had died. Yet, he could still see, though his total panorama consisted only of grass-covered ground no more than a few inches in front of his eyes. And he could hear, his ears relayed a throbbing sound to a numbed brain that refused to relay any explanation as to the cause or the distance from which the strange coughing beat came.
Then suddenly there was silence. The sound had died away, leaving only the vision of green blades wavering slightly in a whispering breeze. Something in the desolation over which he had stumbled was out of context.
The superhuman, courageous effort had been wasted, the responsibility to the people back in the freezing ravine now evaporated into the empty atmosphere. Pitt was past caring or knowing or sensing now, he could relinquish his hold on life and peacefully die under the cold Norse sun. It would have been so easy to let go and fall into the black pit of no return except for something that didn't belong in the picture, an illusion that shattered the whole conception of death.
A pair of boots, two worn leather boots, standing in front of Pitts unseeing eyes where only a moment before was an empty plot of wild grass. And then phantom hands rolled him over on his back and he became aware of a face framed by the vacant sky-a stern face with sea-blue eyes. Gray hair flowed around a broad forehead like the helmet on a warrior in a Flemish painting. An old man, aged somewhere beyond seventy years, wearing a worn turtleneck sweater, bent and touched Pitts face.
Then without saying a word, with surprising strength for a man of his years, he lifted Pitt up and carried him over the rise. Through the cobwebs of his mind, Pitt began to wonder at the sheer coincidence, the miracle, which indeed it was, that led to his discovery.
No more than one easy stride over the small summit lay a road; he had fallen within spitting distance of a small dirt road that paralleled a tumbling glacial river of white froth, rushing swiftly through a narrow gorge of black lava rock. Yet the sound Pitts ears had detected came not from the roar of the falling water, but from the exhaust of an engine belonging to a battered, dustcovered British-made jeep.
Like a child placing a doll in a highchair, the old Icelander set Pitt in the front passenger seat of the jeep.
Then he climbed behind the wheel and steered the rugged little vehicle over the winding road, stopping every so often to open a closed cattle gate, an operation that became routine as they entered a section of rolling hills divided by lush green meadows bursting with plovers that clouded the sky at the approach of the jeep. They stopped in front of a small farmhouse with white sideboards and a red roof. Pitt shrugged off the supporting hands and staggered into the living room of the comfortable little house. 'A telephone, quickly. I need a telephone.
The blue eyes narrowed. 'You are English?' the Icelander asked slowly in a heavy Nordic accent.
'American,' Pitt answered impatiently. 'There are two dozen seriously injured people out there who will die if we don't get help to them soon.'
'There are others on the plateau?' there was no concealing the astonishment.
'Yes, yes!' Pitt nodded his head violently. God, man, the phone. Where do you keep it?'
The Icelander shrugged helplessly. 'The nearest telephone lines are forty kilometers away.'
A great tidal wave of despair swept over Pitt only to ebb and vanish at the stranger's next words.
'However, I have a radio transmitter.' He motioned to a side room. 'Please, this way.'
Pitt followed him into a small, well-lit, but Spartan room, the three primary pieces of furniture being a chair, a cabinet and an ancient hand-carved table holding a gleaming transmitter, not more than a few months from manufacture; Pitt could only marvel at the latest equipment being used in an isolated farmhouse. The Icelander crossed hurriedly to the transmitter, sat down and began twisting the array of dials and knobs. He switched the radio to SEND, selected the frequency and picked up the microphone.
He spoke a few words rapidly in Icelandic and waited. Nothing came back over the speaker. He shifted the transmitting frequency fractionally and spoke again.
This time a voice answered almost immediately. The pressure of the race against death made Pitt as tense as a guy wire in a hurricane gale, and in total indifference to his pain and fatigue he paced the floor while his benefactor conversed with the — Reykjavik authorities. After ten minutes of explanation and translation, Pitt requested and received a call from the American Embassy.
'Where in the goddamned hell have you been?'
Sandecker's voice exploded over the speaker so loudly that it might have come from the doorway.
'Waiting for a streetcar, walking in the park,' Pitt snapped back.
'It makes no difference. How soon before a team of medics can be assembled and in the air?'
There was a tense silence before the admiral answered. There was, he knew, a tone of urgent insistence in Pitts voice, a tone Sandecker had seldom heard from Pitts lips. 'I can have a team of Air Force paramedics ready to load in thirty minutes,' he said slowly. 'Would you mind telling me the reason behind your request for a medical unit?'
Pitt didn't answer immediately. His thoughts were barely able to focus. He nodded thankfully as the Icelander offered him the chair.
'Every minute we waste with explanations, someone may die. For God's sake, Admiral,' Pitt implored, 'contact the Air Force and get their paramedics loaded on helicopters and supplied to aid victims of an air disaster. Then while there's time, I can fill you in on the details.'
'Understood,' Sandecker said without wasting a word. 'Stand by.'
Pitt nodded again, this time to himself, and slumped dejectedly in the chair. It won't be long now, he thought, if only they're in time. He felt a hand on his shoulder, half turned and managed a crooked smile up at the warm- eyed Icelander.
'I've been a rude guest,' he said quietly. 'I haven't introduced myself or thanked you for saving my life.'
The old man offered a long, weathered hand.
'Golfur Andursson,' he said. 'I am chief guide for the Rarfur River.'
Pitt grit)ped Andursson's hand and introduced himself and then asked, 'A chief guide?'
'Yes, a guide is also the river warden. We act as guides for fishermen and watch over the ecology of the river, much like a conservationist in your own country who protects the natural resoarces of your inland water grounds.'
'It must be lonely work-' Pitts mouth stopped working and he gasped as a sharp pain in his chest nearly carried him into blackness. He clutched the table, fighting to remain conscious.
'Come,' Andursson said. 'You must let me tend to your injuries.'
'No,' Pitt answered firmly. 'I must stay by the radio. I'm not leaving this chair.'
Andursson hesitated. Then he shook his head and said nothing. He disappeared from the room and returned in less than two minutes carrying a large first-aid case and a bottle.
You are lucky,' he said smiling. 'One of your countrymen fished the river just last month and left this with me.' He held up and proudly displayed a fifth of Seagram's V.O. Canadian Whiskey. Pitt noticed that the seal on the cap had not been broken.
Pitt was on his fourth healthy swig and the old river warden had just finished binding his chest when the radio crackled and Sandecker's gravel voice broke into the room again.
'Major Pitt, do you read me?'
Pitt lifted the microphone and pressed the transmitting switch. 'Pitt here. I read you, Admiral.'
'The paramedics are mustering at Keflavik and Iceland's civilian search and rescue units are standing by. I'll maintain radio contact and coordinate their efforts.' There was a momentary silence. 'You have a lot of worried
