Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein) by Donald F. Glut, Mark D. Maddox

seem to know more about this demon than the guy who saw it!”
    There was a smile on Winslow’s face as he replied, “I won’t keep you in the dark any longer, Mr. Fairfax. After what you’ve been through and told us, you deserve to know everything. What we, Mr. Dupré, and I, believe you saw is…”
    “Yes?”
    “The remains of the Frankenstein monster!”
    Fairfax stared incredulously at Winslow. “The Frankenstein monster?” he repeated with disbelief. He scratched his head. Surely, he thought, these two men were madder than the hospital doctors thought him to be. “But... I mean, there’s no such thing, is there? I mean, Frankenstein... or, the Frankenstein monster is just an imaginary character, isn’t it? An invention of the cinema and American comic books? Boris Karloff and all that?”
    “Perhaps not, Mr. Fairfax.” Speaking rapidly, Winslow gave the patient a capsule briefing on his belief that the Mary Shelley novel was based upon fact. Then he said, “Now can you tell us just where it was that you encountered this block of ice?”
    “Yes,” said Fairfax, “that should be simple enough. My plane, which is as big as life, is still out there in that embankment. I doubt anyone’s dragged that hulk away.” He laughed. “And you know, there’s only one open door in that crate. I may have been half stewed at the time, but I’m certain I walked relatively in a straight line away from the ship. You keep going in that same direction and you won’t be able to miss the ice block. It rises up from the snow like a white monolith, and the demon... or monster inside will appear, at first, as a dark area. Yes, just follow those directions and you’ll have your Ice God or your Frankenstein monster.”
    “And the plane,” said Dupré. “How do we find that, Monsieur ?”
    “That too is a simple task,” said Fairfax. “Just head north, in the direction that anyone familiar with the old Ice God legend tells you the sacred tomb’s supposed to be, and you should spot it.”
    “Thank you very much, Mr. Fairfax,” said Winslow. He was lighting a cigarette as he turned. And as he exited the room, he left a trail of smoke in his wake.
    “Say,” started Fairfax, calling after him, “wait just a minute.”
    But Winslow, and the Frenchman who pursued him, either did not hear him or had no time to respond. They were already rushing through the hospital corridor and out into the street, planning the morning’s schedule, and anticipating the journey that would bring them face to unsightly face with what they hoped to be Victor Frankenstein’s immortal creation.

CHAPTER V:
    Death In The Shadows
    The clock said that it was evening. Yet, the afternoon sun still shown brightly in this icy land at the top of the world, where night and day each survived for six relentless months without the other.
    Pierre Dupré wished it were really night. He had spent most of his years in his native France and had come to look forward to that most romantic time when the sky darkened and the moon ascended. But he had become accustomed to sleeping while the sun still beamed through the slits in his Venetian blinds.
    The journey on the train had exhausted Pierre and he was glad to sleep again in a real bed. This was, in fact, his first opportunity to rest since he met Burt Winslow. Dupré set the alarm clock on his hotel room dresser to awaken him just a half hour before he and Winslow were scheduled to leave. The hotel, thus far at least, seemed to be a peaceful one, and the Frenchman felt assured that his sleep would not be disturbed.
    On the other hand, Winslow, who was in a room down the hall, was too excited to sleep. He had taken advantage of his being fully awake to place a long-distance telephone call to the United States. If only she hadn’t already left their New York apartment…
    As he waited for the call to be put through, he stared longingly at the photograph he had propped up in its frame atop his chest of drawers.