And ask Mr. Gleason to tell off the crew in threes to lay on deck and have a look.”
“Aye, sir,” said the Captain, and went to the conning tower to repeat the order to Chip Morton, who acknowledged and then asked, “But Lee, what in hell is it?”
“Just hell, I guess,” said the Captain. He returned to the Admiral.
“Captain . . .” said the Admiral, and paused. Lee Crane watched that craggy profile, raised to the burning sky, lit as by an opened furnace door, and waited. He knew that the incredible brain under that iron-grey thatch was racing: matching, measuring, hypothesizing, testing. He knew, too, that the way to get his own head taken off at the collar-button was to interrupt.
At last the Admiral shook his head slowly and turned to Crane and looked at him as if he had just appeared there and, like the band of fire in the sky, had to be explained somehow. “Captain, it isn’t aurora. It’s too close. It has to be close because of the heat, and because of those flame movements. I . . . I think if we get a chance to make the measurements, we’ll find that some of the ice-pack melted down and had a lens effect, concentrating heat at a focal area two-three hundred feet down, which would account for all that hot water. Suddenly created there, that hot layer wouldn’t just lie there—it’d have to move. Just which way would depend on already existing currents, bottom and under-floe contours. But move it would. Move it did.” He shook himself suddenly. “Lee, we’ll want a position, really exact. You and Chip duplicate a sun-shot and average your readings. I don’t think you’ll get any help from radio range but try it anyway. Then drag out your newest ephemeris and see if you can’t get a passage time, azimuth and elevation for one of the communications satellites. I don’t expect a thing from it either, in terms of re-radiation, but if we can use it passively and bounce a tight enough beam off it, we might jam some sort of a signal through all this interference and get through to the Naval Observatory. With luck we could listen the same way. They must know about this, they’ve got to have some sort of explanation.”
Sensing that the old man had said—or was thinking aloud—all he was going to, the Captain stepped aft to the conning tower. At the hatch he stood aside while Dr. Jamieson, Dr. Hiller and Cathy Connors emerged. The first two did just what he and the Admiral had done: stopped dead, wordless and thunderstruck, then moved to the outside ladder in something like a daze. Cathy stared, swallowed, then turned terrified eyes to Crane. “What is it?”
“Like the Admiral says,” he answered gently, “sometimes you just have to quit thinking and wait for information.” He squeezed her arm and went below.
The crew moved about their duties, speaking little and that in muted tones. The Captain went into consultation with the radio operator and then repaired to the nose console, where he and Chip Morton went to work on the navigation problem.
Ten minutes later the intercom whuffed and then delivered the Admiral’s bull tones. “Captain, our sharp-eyed lady psychiatrist has spotted something on an ice-floe. I have the glasses on it; it looks like a man. Bearing about 53°. Get the scope on it and have a look.”
Crane acknowledged and switched the big screen to periscope, turned the bearing control, got a focus, and then carefully worked the zoom knob. He found the object quickly enough: the old man’s by-guess-and-by-God 53° was within two minutes of being dead right. The advanced photo-multiplier TV system gave an immense amount of magnification, and he was able to develop a picture which looked as if it were being taken from forty feet away, though it was actually close to half a mile. He grunted and switched the image to the bridge repeater.
“Taking it calmly, isn’t he?” murmured the intercom.
Crane nodded as if the grille could see him, and he and Chip studied the
“Aye, sir,” said the Captain, and went to the conning tower to repeat the order to Chip Morton, who acknowledged and then asked, “But Lee, what in hell is it?”
“Just hell, I guess,” said the Captain. He returned to the Admiral.
“Captain . . .” said the Admiral, and paused. Lee Crane watched that craggy profile, raised to the burning sky, lit as by an opened furnace door, and waited. He knew that the incredible brain under that iron-grey thatch was racing: matching, measuring, hypothesizing, testing. He knew, too, that the way to get his own head taken off at the collar-button was to interrupt.
At last the Admiral shook his head slowly and turned to Crane and looked at him as if he had just appeared there and, like the band of fire in the sky, had to be explained somehow. “Captain, it isn’t aurora. It’s too close. It has to be close because of the heat, and because of those flame movements. I . . . I think if we get a chance to make the measurements, we’ll find that some of the ice-pack melted down and had a lens effect, concentrating heat at a focal area two-three hundred feet down, which would account for all that hot water. Suddenly created there, that hot layer wouldn’t just lie there—it’d have to move. Just which way would depend on already existing currents, bottom and under-floe contours. But move it would. Move it did.” He shook himself suddenly. “Lee, we’ll want a position, really exact. You and Chip duplicate a sun-shot and average your readings. I don’t think you’ll get any help from radio range but try it anyway. Then drag out your newest ephemeris and see if you can’t get a passage time, azimuth and elevation for one of the communications satellites. I don’t expect a thing from it either, in terms of re-radiation, but if we can use it passively and bounce a tight enough beam off it, we might jam some sort of a signal through all this interference and get through to the Naval Observatory. With luck we could listen the same way. They must know about this, they’ve got to have some sort of explanation.”
Sensing that the old man had said—or was thinking aloud—all he was going to, the Captain stepped aft to the conning tower. At the hatch he stood aside while Dr. Jamieson, Dr. Hiller and Cathy Connors emerged. The first two did just what he and the Admiral had done: stopped dead, wordless and thunderstruck, then moved to the outside ladder in something like a daze. Cathy stared, swallowed, then turned terrified eyes to Crane. “What is it?”
“Like the Admiral says,” he answered gently, “sometimes you just have to quit thinking and wait for information.” He squeezed her arm and went below.
The crew moved about their duties, speaking little and that in muted tones. The Captain went into consultation with the radio operator and then repaired to the nose console, where he and Chip Morton went to work on the navigation problem.
Ten minutes later the intercom whuffed and then delivered the Admiral’s bull tones. “Captain, our sharp-eyed lady psychiatrist has spotted something on an ice-floe. I have the glasses on it; it looks like a man. Bearing about 53°. Get the scope on it and have a look.”
Crane acknowledged and switched the big screen to periscope, turned the bearing control, got a focus, and then carefully worked the zoom knob. He found the object quickly enough: the old man’s by-guess-and-by-God 53° was within two minutes of being dead right. The advanced photo-multiplier TV system gave an immense amount of magnification, and he was able to develop a picture which looked as if it were being taken from forty feet away, though it was actually close to half a mile. He grunted and switched the image to the bridge repeater.
“Taking it calmly, isn’t he?” murmured the intercom.
Crane nodded as if the grille could see him, and he and Chip studied the
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