Professor Banting, ever the pedant, closed ranks. "I don't have to remind you, Dr. Chase, that we've had this discussion once before. This matter has nothing whatsoever to do with you. Both Lieutenant Madden and myself are acting on instructions from a higher authority. Please understand that we are simply doing our best to carry them out."
Chase said stubbornly, "Even if it kills the patient."
"Dr. Chase, we have a full range of medical facilities at McMurdo. This is for the best, believe me. He'll be well treated and looked after, you have my word." Lieutenant Madden's eyes thawed a little. "I'll even have the medic send you a progress report, how's that?"
They must think him stupid. He didn't like being soft-soaped. He stared levelly at the American. "You can't seriously believe he's a security risk, not with a broken back."
"This isn't a security matter, Dr. Chase. Leastwise, not military security." Lieutenant Madden lowered his voice as if taking Chase into his confidence. "Between us, we do have some information. We think --we're not sure yet--that he's a member of a Soviet oil prospecting team. We've known for some time that they've been secretly exploring the continent for oil deposits, which as you may know is in contravention of the Antarctic Treaty, ratified by sixteen nations. We've no hard evidence to support this, but if we can come up with dates, locations, even some of their findings from an eyewitness, then it might persuade the USSR to pull out before the whole thing blows up into a major international incident. Naturally we don't want the Soviets looking for oil behind our backs, but even less are we seeking an energy confrontation with them on what until now has been neutral ground."
"I see." Chase breathed twin plumes of steam into the blisteringly cold air. Banting stamped his feet, looking almost relieved.
Lieutenant Madden leaned forward. "I'd appreciate it, Dr. Chase, if this didn't go any further." One intelligent man appealing to the integrity and good sense of another. "You understand."
"Absolutely."
"Good. Fine." The American's thin lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "I knew I could rely on you."
He shook hands with them both, gave a courtesy salute, and walked briskly across the packed snow to the waiting aircraft, whose engines had been kept idling all the time it was on the ground. At 65 degrees below zero F. the fuel in its tanks would have frozen solid.
The C-130 taxied into the wind and took off, snow spurting from its skis in a billowing cloud, and in seconds the wing and fuselage lights were bright winking stars against a sky already darkening into the twenty-two-hour night.
Chase strolled back with Nick to the entrance ramp, not hearing his lament that Doug Thomas hadn't materialized with the little plastic bag. He was thinking instead of the perfectly sincere expression on the sharp young face of Lt. Lloyd Madden, and of his equally sincere explanation, so confidential, so plausible, so well rehearsed.
Three days later, during the changeover at McMurdo Station, Chase learned from a U.S. Army doctor that the Russian had died of a brain hemorrhage on the operating table. He wasn't a bit surprised. The poor bastard had never stood a chance. From a bucket seat forward of the cargo compartment in the smooth silver belly of a C-121 Lockheed Super Constellation, Chase gazed down on the swathes of blue and green that marked the varying depths and different currents in the ocean. They were six hours out from Antarctica, with another four to go before landing at Christchurch.
As the aircraft droned on he thought about the dead man, about the piece of paper carefully folded in his diary, about the absorption of carbon dioxide in seawater. But none of it seemed to get him anywhere at all.
2
The research vessel
Part of the fleet belonging to the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, the
