
11:57The heated bit of the power drill chewed deep into the ice Slush churned
out of the hole, sluiced across the crusted snow and refroze in seconds. The
bit was out of sight now and the steel shank had also disappeared into the
four inch-diameter bore.Harry Carpenter, watching the drill bite deeper and
deeper into the ice, had a premonition of disaster. Al-though, as a scientist,
he respected the tools of logic method and reason, Carpenter had learned never
to discount a hunch. Especially not out here on the icefield where anything
could happen—and usually did. He could not understand the source of his
uneasiness—unless it was the possibility that the explosive charge might
detonate prematurely, right now, in their faces. There was little chance of
that. Nevertheless . . .Peter Johnson, the American electronics engineer who
doubled as demolitions expert, switched off the drill and stepped back from
it. In his bulky white thermal suit and fur-lined hood, he resembled a polar
bear—except for his dark brown face.Claude Jobert shut off the portable
generator which supplied power to the drill.As the afternoon began, the three
men were pre-paring to lower the last of the one-hundred-pound ex-plosive
charges into the ice. This was the sixtieth bomb they had handled since
yesterday morning, and they were uneasily aware that they were standing on
enough high-yield plastic explosives to destroy them in an apocalyptic
instant.If they died here, Harry thought, well . . . the ice cap was a model
graveyard, utterly lifeless. Ghostly bluish-white plains led off in every
direction, somber and moody during this season of nearly constant darkness,
brief twilight and perpetual overcast. Visibility was fair because this was
the time of day when a vague crescent of sunlight painted the horizon. But
there was not much to see. The only points of elevation were the jagged
pressure ridges and hundreds of house-sized slabs of ice that had popped from
the field and stood on end like gigantic tombstones.Pete Johnson joined
Carpenter and Jobert in front of a pair of specially rebuilt snowmobiles. “The
shaft's twenty-eight yards deep. One more extension for the bit and the job's
done.”“Thank God!” Jobert shivered as if his thermal suit provided no
protection whatsoever. In spite of the trans-parent film of lanolin petroleum
jelly that protected the exposed portions of his face from frostbite, he was
pale and drawn. “We'll make it back to base camp tonight Think of that! I
haven't been warm since we left.”Ordinarily, Jobert did not complain. He was a
jovial and energetic little man. At a glance he seemed fragile. That wasn't
the case. At five-seven and a hundred and thirty pounds, he was lean, wiry,
hard. He had a mane of white hair, a leathery face and bright blue eyes as
clear as those of a child. Carpenter had never seen hatred or anger in those
eyes—nor, until yesterday, had he seen self-pity in them.Since they had left
the comfort of Edgeway Station, Jobert had been neither jovial nor energetic.
At fifty-nine he was the oldest member of the expedition, eighteen years older
than Carpenter. That was nearly the outer limit for a scientist working in
this brutal climate.Although he was a fine Arctic geologist, this would be his
last trip onto the icefield. From now on, his work would be done in
laboratories and behind typewriters, far from the rigors of the ice.Maybe,
Harry thought, he's not bothered by the cold so much as by the knowledge that
this work has grown too demanding for him. How will I feel when I've got to
face the same truth?Pete Johnson said, “It's snowing.”Even as the black man
spoke, Harry saw the dime-sized flakes.Jobert frowned. “We weren't due for
snow until this evening.”The trip out from Edgeway Station—four air miles to
the northeast, seven miles by snowmobile past ridges and deep chasms—had not
been difficult. However, a bad storm could make the return journey impossible.
Visibility would decrease to zero. They could easily get lost because of
compass distortion. And if their snowmobiles ran out of fuel, they would
freeze to death, for even their thermal suits would be insufficient protection
against prolonged exposure to the murderous cold that came with a
blizzard.Studying the sky, Carpenter said, “This might be a local squall.”“You
said the same thing last week,” Johnson re-minded him. “As a geophysicist, you
deserved the Nobel. As a meteorologist—”“I'm a bust. So we'd better finish
this job quickly.”“Like yesterday.”Johnson freed the drill from the shank of