picture. It showed a man in his thirties, dressed in a government-issue parka with the front slide open and the hood flung back.
He was squatting on his heels in the manner practiced by some Amerindians and most desert Arabs, a pose which most people find impossible after five minutes but which they can hold by the day. His face, which was fiery red in the flaming light, red not only from the light but from sunburn and fever, was otherwise suffused with what could only be called peace—nothing ecstatic or blissful, but solely, passively peaceful.
“Rescue detail!” barked the Captain. “Mr. Gleason, blow up a dinghy, take three men and go out and get that man off the ice. Jump! It might not be there much longer.” Gleason acknowledged.
Chip Morton said, “What’s that he’s holding?”
“Looks like a wet muff,” said the Captain, peering. “Muff or busby-hat, it’s wagging its tail,” said Chip. “A dog, by God . . . What’s with that guy, anyhow? If it was me, I’d be dancing a jig and hollering my head off.”
“He could be delirious.”
“Somehow I don’t think so.” Crane shrugged the whole matter out of his mind and motioned Morton back to the ephemeris.
In a few minutes they had a position, taking their turns at the automatic sextant, and averaging their calculations with the course computer which, like similar ones on aircraft, was designed to give current position no matter what maneuvers had been performed, but which was similarly subject to error from unrecognized drift currents. They also averaged the three chronometers to seven or eight hundredths of a second, reduced the whole thing to three lines of figures, and passed them to Sparks, who had already activated the high-powered satellite search radars. The operator glanced at the figures, then moved controls which unfolded the big “bedspring” on its telescopic mast abaft the conning tower, and set it to sweeping the sky in the area where, if their computations were right, the communications satellite should appear. Warmed up and ready to go were transmitter, receiver, and a lock-on device which would follow the satellite as long as it was in range.
The Admiral called from the bridge: “Mr. Crane, have Sparks contact Gleason and have him report on the condition of that man out there.”
In a moment the speaker roared with static, which changed in tone as Sparks tried to trim some of it out. The Admiral’s message went out, and was answered by Gleason on the walkie-talkie, barely readable over the churning interference—at only a quarter of a mile—”He must be sick or something, sir. He just sits there. If he’d come out on that spur we could snatch him off it in a minute now, but I guess we’ll have to go around the other side.”
“Got it, sir!” Sparks cried excitedly. A secondary screen flickered into life and became a seascape showing a small segment of that dreadful fire in the sky. Crosshairs appeared, and at their junction, the familiar silver pip of a satellite. “Locked on, sir!” called Sparks. “Can you get anything off it?”
“Just a second, sir . . . ah. Ah!” The speaker roared again, and the roar faded under a signal—a blast of rock-and-roll music. “Pipe that all over the ship,” said the Captain. To Morton he said, “I imagine the rest of the crew will be as glad as I am to know that nothing has happened to the U.S.A.”
“After a rock-and-roll revival, what else should happen?”
They watched the rescue operation for a few moments. Gleason was edging his powered, inflated dinghy in close. He threw the man a rope. The man just looked at it. Crane could imagine the stream of disgusted profanity Gleason was generating.
The Admiral appeared in the after doorway. “Where’s that music coming from?” he demanded.
“Can’t tell yet, sir. Maybe they’ll announce at the end of the number.”
The music slammed and tinkled.
“Of all the times to be broadcasting that,” growled the
He was squatting on his heels in the manner practiced by some Amerindians and most desert Arabs, a pose which most people find impossible after five minutes but which they can hold by the day. His face, which was fiery red in the flaming light, red not only from the light but from sunburn and fever, was otherwise suffused with what could only be called peace—nothing ecstatic or blissful, but solely, passively peaceful.
“Rescue detail!” barked the Captain. “Mr. Gleason, blow up a dinghy, take three men and go out and get that man off the ice. Jump! It might not be there much longer.” Gleason acknowledged.
Chip Morton said, “What’s that he’s holding?”
“Looks like a wet muff,” said the Captain, peering. “Muff or busby-hat, it’s wagging its tail,” said Chip. “A dog, by God . . . What’s with that guy, anyhow? If it was me, I’d be dancing a jig and hollering my head off.”
“He could be delirious.”
“Somehow I don’t think so.” Crane shrugged the whole matter out of his mind and motioned Morton back to the ephemeris.
In a few minutes they had a position, taking their turns at the automatic sextant, and averaging their calculations with the course computer which, like similar ones on aircraft, was designed to give current position no matter what maneuvers had been performed, but which was similarly subject to error from unrecognized drift currents. They also averaged the three chronometers to seven or eight hundredths of a second, reduced the whole thing to three lines of figures, and passed them to Sparks, who had already activated the high-powered satellite search radars. The operator glanced at the figures, then moved controls which unfolded the big “bedspring” on its telescopic mast abaft the conning tower, and set it to sweeping the sky in the area where, if their computations were right, the communications satellite should appear. Warmed up and ready to go were transmitter, receiver, and a lock-on device which would follow the satellite as long as it was in range.
The Admiral called from the bridge: “Mr. Crane, have Sparks contact Gleason and have him report on the condition of that man out there.”
In a moment the speaker roared with static, which changed in tone as Sparks tried to trim some of it out. The Admiral’s message went out, and was answered by Gleason on the walkie-talkie, barely readable over the churning interference—at only a quarter of a mile—”He must be sick or something, sir. He just sits there. If he’d come out on that spur we could snatch him off it in a minute now, but I guess we’ll have to go around the other side.”
“Got it, sir!” Sparks cried excitedly. A secondary screen flickered into life and became a seascape showing a small segment of that dreadful fire in the sky. Crosshairs appeared, and at their junction, the familiar silver pip of a satellite. “Locked on, sir!” called Sparks. “Can you get anything off it?”
“Just a second, sir . . . ah. Ah!” The speaker roared again, and the roar faded under a signal—a blast of rock-and-roll music. “Pipe that all over the ship,” said the Captain. To Morton he said, “I imagine the rest of the crew will be as glad as I am to know that nothing has happened to the U.S.A.”
“After a rock-and-roll revival, what else should happen?”
They watched the rescue operation for a few moments. Gleason was edging his powered, inflated dinghy in close. He threw the man a rope. The man just looked at it. Crane could imagine the stream of disgusted profanity Gleason was generating.
The Admiral appeared in the after doorway. “Where’s that music coming from?” he demanded.
“Can’t tell yet, sir. Maybe they’ll announce at the end of the number.”
The music slammed and tinkled.
“Of all the times to be broadcasting that,” growled the
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