Ice Station Zebra

1

Commander James D. Swanson of the U.S. Navy was short, plump and crowding forty. He had jet-black hair topping a pink, cherubic face, and with the deep permanent creases of laughter lines radiating from his eyes and curving around his mouth, he was a dead ringer for the cheerful, happy-golucky extrovert who is the life and soul of the party where the guests park their brains along with their hats and coats. That, anyway, was how he struck me at first glance, but on the reasonable assumption that I might very likely find some other qualities in the man picked to command the latest and most powerful nuclear submarine afloat I took a second and closer look at him and this time I saw what I should have seen the first time if the dank gray fog and winter dusk settling down over the Firth of Clyde hadn't made seeing so difficult. His eyes. Whatever his eyes were, they weren't those of the glad-handing, wisecracking «bon vivant». They were the coolest, clearest gray eyes I'd ever seen, eyes that he used as a dentist might his probe, a surgeon his lancet, or a scientist his electronic microscope. Measuring eyes. They measured first me and then the paper he held in his hand but gave no clue at all as to the conclusions arrived at on the basis of measurements made.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Carpenter." The south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line voice was quiet and courteous, but without any genuine regret that I could detect, as he folded the telegram back into its envelope and handed it to me. "I can accept neither this telegram as sufficient authorization nor yourself as a passenger. Nothing personal, you know that: but I have my orders."

"Not sufficient authorization?" I pulled the telegram from its envelope and pointed to the signature. "Who do you think this is — the resident window cleaner at the Admiralty?"

It wasn't funny, and as I looked at him in the failing light I thought maybe I'd overestimated the depth of the laughter lines in the face. He said precisely, "Admiral Hewson is commander of the Nato Eastern Division. On Nato exercises I come under his command. At all other times I am responsible only to Washington. This is one of those other times. I'm Sorry. And I must point out, Dr. Carpenter, that you could have arranged for anyone in London to send this telegram. It's not even on a naval message form."

He didn't miss much, that was a fact, but he was being suspicious about nothing. I said: "You could call him up by radio telephone, Commander."

"So I could," he agreed. "And it would make no difference. Only accredited American nationals are allowed aboard this vessel — and the authority must come from Washington."

"From the Director of Underseas Warfare or Commander Atlantic Submarines?" He nodded, slowly, speculatively, and I went on: "Please radio them and ask them to contact Admiral Hewson. Time is very short, Commander." I might have added that it was beginning to snow and that I was getting colder by the minute, but I refrained.

He thought for a moment, nodded, turned and walked a few feet to a portable dock-side telephone that was connected by a looping wire to the long, dark shape lying at our feet. He spoke briefly, keeping his voice low, and hung up. He barely had time to rejoin me when three duffel-coated figtires came hurrying up an adjacent gangway, turned in our direction and stopped when they reached us. The tallest of the three tall men, a lean, rangy character with wheat-colored hair and the definite look of a man who ought to have had a horse between his legs, stood slightly in advance of the other two. Commander Swanson gestured toward him.

"Lieutenant Hansen, my executive officer. He'll look after you till I get back." The commander certainly knew how to choose his words.

"I don't need looking after," I said mildly. "I'm all grown up now and I hardly ever feel lonely."

"I shall be as quick as I can, Dr. Carpenter," Swanson said. He hurried off down the gangway, and I gazed thoughtfully after him. I put out of my mind any idea I might have had about the Commander U. S. Atlantic Submarines picking his captains from the benches in Central Park. I had tried to effect an entrance aboard Swanson's ship, and if such an entrace was unauthorized he didn't want me taking off tifi he'd found out why. Hansen and his two men, I guessed, would be the three biggest sailors on the ship.

The ship. I stared down at the great black shape lying almost at my feet. This was my first sight of a nuclearengined submarine, and the «Dolphin» was like no submarine I had ever seen. She was about the same length as a World War II long-range ocean-going submarine, but there all resemblance ceased. Her diameter was at least twice that of any conventional submarine. Instead of having the vaguely boat-shaped lines of her predecessors, the «Dolphin» was almost perfectly cylindrical in design; instead of the usual V-shaped bows, her fore end was completely hemispherical. There was no deck, as such: the rounded sheer of sides and bows rose smoothly to the top of the hull then fell as smoothly away again, leaving only a very narrow fore and aft working space so treacherous in its slippery convexity that it was permanently railed off in harbor. About a hundred feet back from the bows the slender yet massive conning tower reared over twenty feet above the deck, for all the world like the great dorsal fin of some monstrous shark; halfway up the sides of the conning tower and thrust out stubbily at right angles were the swept-back auxiliary diving planes of the submarine. I tried to see what lay further aft but the fog and the thickening snow swirling down from the north of Loch Long defeated me. Anyway, I was losing interest. I'd only a thin raincoat over my clothes and I could feel my skin start to gooseflesh under the chili fingers of that winter wind.

"Nobody said anything about us having to freeze to death," I said to Hansen. "That naval canteen there. Would your principles prevent you from accepting a cup of coffee from Dr. Carpenter, that well-known espionage agent?"

He grinned and said: "In the matter of coffee, friend, I have no principles. Especially tonight. Someone should have warned us about those Scottish winters." He not only looked like a cowboy, he talked like one. I was an expert on cowboys, as I was sometimes too tired to rise to switch off the TV set. "Rawlings, go tell the captain that we are sheltering from the elements."

While Rawlings went to the dock-side phone Hansen led the way to the nearby neon-lit canteen. He let me precede him through the door, then made for the counter while the other sailor, a red-complexioned character about the size and shape of a polar bear, nudged me gently into an angled bench seat in one corner of the room. They weren't taking too many chances with me. Hansen came and sat on the other side of me, and when Rawlings returned he sat squarely in front of me across the table.

"As neat a job of corralling as I've seen for a long time," I said approvingly. "You've got nasty, suspicious minds, haven't you?"

"You wrong us," Hansen said sadly. "We're just three friendly sociable guys carrying out our orders. It's Commander Swanson who has the nasty, suspicious mind, isn't that so, Rawlings?"

"Yes indeed, Lieutenant," Rawlings said gravely. "Very security-minded, the captain is."

I tried again. "Isn't this very inconvenient for you?" I asked. "I mean, I should have thought that every man would have been urgently required aboard if you're due to sail in less than two hours' time."

"You just keep on talking, Doc," Hansen said encouragingly. There was nothing encouraging about his cold blue Arctic eyes. "I'm a right good listener."

"Looking forward to your trip up to the ice pack?" I inquired pleasantly.

They operated on the same wave length, all right. They didn't even look at one another. In pefect unison they all hitched themselves a couple of inches closer to me, and there was nothing imperceptible about the way they did it, either, Hansen waited, smiling in a pleasantly relaxed fashion until the waitress had deposited four steaming mugs of coffee on the table, then said in the same encouraging tone: "Come again, friend. Nothing we like to hear better than top-classified information being bandied about in canteens. How the hell do «you» know where we're going?"

I reached up my hand beneath my coat lapel and it stayed there, my right wrist locked in Hansen's right hand.

"We're not suspicious or anything," he said apologetically. "It's just that we submariners are very nervous on account of the dangerous life we lead. Also, we've a very fine library of movies aboard the «Dolphin», and every time a character in one of those movies reaches up under his coat it's always for the same reason, and that's not just because he's checking to see if his wallet's still there."

I took his wrist with my free hand, pulled his arm away and pushed it down on the table. I'm not saying it was easy — the U. S. Navy clearly fed its submariners on a high-protein diet — but I managed it without bursting a blood vessel. I pulled a folded newspaper out from under my coat and laid it down. "You wanted to know how the hell I knew where you were going," I said. "I can read, that's why. That's a Glasgow evening paper I picked up in Renfrew airport half an hour ago."

Hansen rubbed his wrist thoughtfully, then grinned. "What did you get your doctorate in, Doc? Weight-lifting? About that paper — how could you have got it in Renfrew half an hour ago?"

"I flew down here. Helicopter."

"A whirly-bird, eh? I heard one arriving a few minutes ago. But that was one of ours."

"It had 'U. S. Navy' written all over it in four-foot letters," I conceded, "and the pilot spent all his time chewing gum and praying out loud for a quick return to California."

"Did you tell the skipper this?" Hansen demanded.

"He didn't give me the chance to tell him anything."

"He's got a lot on his mind and far too much to see to," Hansen said. He unfolded the paper and looked at the front page. He didn't have far to look to find what he wanted: the two-inch-banner headlines were spread over seven columns.

"Well, would you look at this." Lieutenant Hansen made no attempt to conceal his irritation and chagrin. "Here we are, pussy-footing around in this God-forsaken dump, tape all over our mouths, sworn to eternal secrecy about mission and destination — and then what? I pick up this damned limey newspaper and here are all the top-secret details plastered right across the front page."

"You are kidding, Lieutenant," said the man with the red face and the general aspect of a polar bear. His voice seemed to come from his boots.

"I am not kidding, Zabrinski," Hansen said coldly, "as you would appreciate if you had ever learned to read. 'Nuclear submarine to the rescue,' it says. 'Dramatic dash to the North Pole.' God help us, the North Pole. And a picture of the «Dolphin». And of the skipper. Good God, there's even a picture of me."

Rawhings reached out a hairy paw and twisted the paper to have a better look at the blurred and smudged representation of the man before him. "So there is. Not very flattering, is it, Lieutenant? But a speaking likeness, mind you, a speaking likeness. The photographer has caught the essentials perfectly."

"You are utterly ignorant of the first principles of photography," Hansen said witheringly. "Listen to this piece. 'The following joint statement was issued simultaneously a few minutes before noon (G.M.T.) today in both London and Washington: "In view of the critical condition of the survivors of Drift Ice Station Zebra and the failure either to rescue or contact them by conventional means, the U. S. Navy has willingly agreed that the U. S. nuclear submarine «Dolphin» be dispatched with all speed to try to effect contact with the survivors.

"'"The «Dolphin» returned to its base in the Holy Loch, Scotland, at dawn this morning after carrying out extensive exercises with the Nato naval forces in the eastern Atlantic. It is hoped that the «Dolphin» (Commander James D. Swanson, U.S.N., commanding) will sail at approximately seven p.m. (G.M.T.) this evening."

"'The laconic understatement of this communique heralds the beginning of a desperate and dangerous rescue attempt which must be without parallel in the history of the sea or the Arctic, It is now sixty hours — '"

"Desperate,' you said, Lieutenant?" Rawlings frowned heavily. "'Dangerous,' you said? The captain will be asking for volunteers?"

"No need. I told the captain that I'd already checked with all eighty-eight enlisted men and that they'd volunteered to a man."

"You never checked with me."

"I must have missed you. Now, kindly shut up, your executive officer is talking. 'It is now sixty hours since the world was electrified to learn of the disaster that had struck Drift Ice Station Zebra, the only British meteorological station in the Arctic, when an English-speaking ham-radio operator in Bod?, Norway, picked up the faint S.O.S. from the top of the world.

"A further message, picked up less than twenty-four hours ago by the British trawler «Morning Star» in the Barents Sea, makes it clear that the position of the survivors of the fuel-oil fire that destroyed most of Drift Ice Station Zebra in the early hours of Tuesday morning is desperate in the extreme. With their oil-fuel reserves completely destroyed and their food stores all but wiped out, it is feared that those still living cannot long be expected to survive in the twenty-below temperatures — fifty degrees of frost — at present being experienced in that area.

"'It is not known whether all the prefabricated huts, in which the expedition members lived, have been destroyed.

"'Drift Ice Station Zebra, which was established only in the late summer of this year, is at present in an estimated position of 85° 40'N., 21 °30'E., which is only about three hundred miles from the North Pole. Its position cannot be known with certainty, because of the clockwise drift of the polar ice pack.

"'For the past thirty hours long-range supersonic bombers of the American, British and Russian air forces have been scouring the polar ice pack searching for Station Zebra. Because of the uncertainty about the drift station's actual position, the complete absence of daylight in the Arctic at this time of year and the extremely bad weather conditions, they were unable to locate the station and forced to return.'"

"They didn't have to locate it," Rawhings objected. "Not visually. With the instruments those bombers have nowadays, they could home-in on a hummingbird a hundred miles away. The radio operator at the drift station had only to keep on sending and they could have used that as a beacon."

"Maybe the radio operator is dead," Hansen said heavily, "Maybe his radio has broken down on him. Maybe the fuel that was destroyed was essential f or running the radio. All depends what source of power he used."

"Diesel-electric generator," I said. "He had a standby battery of Nife cells. Maybe he's conserving the batteries, using them only for emergencies. There's also a hand-cranked generator, but its range is pretty limited."

"How do you know that?" Hansen asked quietly. "About the type of power used?"

"I must have read it somewhere."

"You must have read it somewhere." He looked at me without expression, then turned back to his paper. "A report from Moscow states that the atomic-engined «Dvina», the world's most powerful ice-breaker, sailed from Murmansk some twenty hours ago and is proceeding at high speed toward the Arctic pack. Experts are not hopeful about the outcome, for at this late period of the year the ice pack has already thickened and compacted into a solid mass which will almost certainly defy the efforts of any vessel, even those of the «Dvina», to smash its way through.

"'The use of the submarine «Dolphin» appears to offer the only slender hope of life for the apparently doomed survivors of Station Zebra. The odds against success must be regarded as heavy in the extreme. Not only will the «Dolphin» have to travel several hundred miles continuously submerged under the polar ice cap, but the possibilities of its being able to break through the ice cap at any given place or to locate the survivors are very remote. But undoubtedly if any ship in the world can do it, it is the «Dolphin», the pride of the U.S. Navy's nuclear submarine fleet.'"

Hansen broke off and read on silently for a minute. Then he said: "That's about all. A story giving all the known details of the «Dolphin». That, and a lot of ridiculous rubbish about the enlisted men in the «Dolphin's» crew being the elite of the cream of the U. S. Navy."

Rawlings looked wounded. Zabrinski, the polar bear with the red face, grinned, fished out a pack of cigarettes and passed them around. Then he became serious again and said: "What are those crazy guys doing up there at the top of the world, anyway?"

"Meteorological, lunkhead," Rawlings informed him. "Didn't you hear the lieutenant say so? A big word, mind you," he conceded generously, "but he made a pretty fair stab at it. 'Weather station' to you, Zabrinski."

"I still say they're crazy guys," Zabrinski rumbled. "Why do they do it, Lieutenant?"

"I suggest you ask Dr. Carpenter about it," Hansen said dryly. He stared through the plate-glass windows at the snow whirling grayly through the gathering darkness, his eyes bleak and remote, as if he were already visualizing the doomed men drifting to their death in the frozen immensity of the polar ice cap. "I think he knows a great deal more about it than I do."

"I know a little," I admitted. "There's nothing mysterious or sinister about what I know. Meteorologists now regard the Arctic and the Antarctic as the two great weather factories of the world, the areas primarily responsible for the weather that affects the rest of the hemispheres. We already know a fair amount about Antarctic conditions, but practically nothing about the Arctic. So we pick a suitable ice floe, fill it with huts crammed with technicians and all sorts of instruments, and let them drift around the top of the world for six months or so. Your own people have already set up two or three of those stations. The Russians have set up at least ten, to the best of my knowledge, most of them in the East Siberian Sea."

"How do they establish those camps, Doc?" Rawlings asked.

"Different ways. Your people prefer to establish them in wintertime, when the pack freezes up enough for plane landings to be made. Someone flies out from, usually, Point Barrow in Alaska and searches around the polar pack till they find a suitable ice floe — even when the ice is compacted and frozen together into one solid mass an expert can tell which pieces are going to remain as good-sized floes when the thaw comes and the break-up begins. Then they fly out all huts, equipment, stores and men by ski plane and gradually build the place up.

"The Russians prefer to use a ship in summertime. They generally use the «Lenin», a nuclear-engined ice-breaker. It just batters its way deep into the summer pack, dumps everything and everybody on the ice, and takes off before the big freeze-up starts. We used the same technique for Drift Ice Station Zebra — our one and only ice station. The Russians lent us the «Lenin» — all countries are only too willing to concentrate on meteorological research, since everyone benefits by it — and took us pretty deep into the ice pack north of Franz Josef Land. Zebra has already moved a good bit from its original position — the polar ice cap, just sitting on top of the Arctic Ocean, can't quite manage to keep up with the west-east spin of the earth, so that it has a slow westward movement in relation to the earth's crust. At the present moment It's about four hundred miles due north of Spitsbergen."

"They're still crazy," Zabrinski said. He was silent for a moment, then looked speculatively at me. "You in the limey Navy, Doc?"

"You must forgive Zabrinski's manners, Dr. Carpenter," Rawlings said coldly. "But he's been denied the advantages that the rest of us take for granted. I understand he was born in the Bronx."

"No offense," Zabrinski said equably. "Royal Navy, I meant. Are you, Doc?"

"Attached to it, you might say."

"Loosely, no doubt." Rawlings nodded. "Why so keen on an Arctic holiday, Doc? Mighty cool up there, I can tell you."

"Because the men on Drift Station Zebra are going to be badly in need of medical aid. If there are any survivors, that is."

"We got our own medic on board and he's no slouch with a stethoscope, or so I've heard from several who have survived his treatment. A well-spoken-of quack."

"'Doctor,' you ill-mannered lout," Zabrinski said severely.

"That's what I meant," Rawlings apologized. "It's not often that I get the chance to talk to an educated man like myself, and it just kinda slipped out. The point is, the Dolphin's already all buttoned up on the medical side."

"I'm sure it is," I smiled, "but any survivors we might find are going to be suffering from advanced exposure, frostbite, and probably gangrene. The treatment of those is rather a specialty of mine."

"Is it now?" Rawlings surveyed the depths of his coffee cup. "I wonder how a man gets to be a specialist in those things?"

Hansen stirred and withdrew his gaze from the darkly white world beyond the canteen windows.

"Dr. Carpenter is not on trial for his life," he said mildly. "The counsel for the prosecution will kindly shut up."

This air of easy familiarity between officer and men, the easy camaraderie, the mutually tolerant disparagement with the deceptively misleading overtones of music-hall comedy, was something very rare in my experience but not unique. I'd seen it before, in first-line R.A.F. bomber crews, a relationship found only among a close-knit, close-living group of superbly trained experts, each of whom is keenly aware of his complete interdependence on the others. The casually informal and familiar attitude was a token not of the lack of discipline but the complete reverse, it was the badge of a very high degree of self-discipline, of the regard one man held for another not only as a highly skilled technician in his own field but also as a human being. It was clear, too, that a list of unwritten rules governed their conduct. Offhand and frequently completely lacking in outward respect though Rawlings and Zabrinski were in their attitude toward Lieutenant Hansen, there was an invisible line of propriety over which it was inconceivable that they would ever step: for Hansen's part, he scrupulously avoided any use of his authority when making disparaging remarks at the expense of the two enlisted men. It was also clear, as now, who was boss.

Rawlings and Zabrinski had stopped questioning me and had just embarked upon an enthusiastic discussion of the demerits of the Holy Loch in particular and Scotland in general as a submarine base, when a jeep swept past the canteen windows, the snow whirling whitely, thickly, through the swathe of the headlights. Rawlings jumped to his feet in mid-sentence, then subsided slowly and thoughtfully into his chair.

"The plot," he announced, "thickens."

"You saw who it was?" Hansen asked.

"I did indeed. Andy Bandy, no less."

"I didn't hear that, Rawlings," Hansen said coldly.

"Vice-Admiral John Garvie, U. S. Navy, sir."

"Andy Bandy, eh?" Hansen said pensively. He grinned at me. "Admiral Garvie. Officer Commanding U. S. Naval Forces in Nato. Now, this is very interesting, I submit. I wonder what he's doing here."

"World War III has just broken out," Rawlings announced. "It's just about time for the admiral's first Martini of the day, and no lesser crisis — "

"He didn't by any chance fly down with you in that chopper from Renfrew this afternoon?" Hansen interrupted shrewdly.

"No."

"Know him, by any chance?"

"Never even heard of him until now."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Hansen murmured.

A few minutes passed in desultory talk — the minds of Hansen and his two men were obviously very much on the reason for the arrival of Admiral Garvie — and then a snowfilled gust of chilled air swept into the canteen as the door opened and a blue-coated sailor came in and crossed to our table.

"The captain's compliments, Lieutenant. Would you bring Dr. Carpenter to his cabin, please?"

Hansen nodded, rose to his feet and led the way outside. The snow was beginning to lie now, the darkness was coming down fast and the wind from the north was bitingly cold. Hansen made for the nearest gangway, halted at its head as he saw seamen and dockyard workers, insubstantial and spectral figures in the swirling, flood-lit snow, carefully easing a slung torpedo down the for'ard hatch, turned and headed toward the after gangway. We clambered down and at the foot Hansen said: "Watch your step, Doc. It's a little slippery hereabouts."

It was all that, but with the -thought of the ire-cold waters of the Holy Loch waiting for me if I put a foot wrong I made no mistake. We passed through the hooped canvas shelter covering the after hatch and dropped down a steep metal ladder into a warm, scrupulously clean and gleaming engine room packed with a baffling complexity of gray-painted ma. chinery and instrument panels, its every corner brightly illuminated with shadowless fluorescent lighting.

"Not going to blindfold me, Lieutenant?" I asked.

"No need." He grinned. "If you're on the up and up, it's not necessary. if you're not on the up and up, it's still not necessary, for you can't talk about what you've seen — not to anyone that matters — if you're going to -spend the next few years staring out from behind a set of prison bars."

I saw his point. I followed him for'ard, our feet soundless on the black rubber decking, past the tops of a couple of huge machines readily identifiable as turbo-generator sets for producing electricity. More heavy banks of instruments, a door, then a thirty-foot-long very narrow passageway. As we passed along its length I was conscious of a heavy vibrating hum from beneath my feet. The «Dolphin's» nuclear reactor had to be somewhere. This would be it, here. Directly beneath us. There were circular hatches on the passageway deck and those could only be covers for the heavily leaded glass windows, inspection ports that would provide the nearest and only approach to the nuclear furnace far below.

The end of the passage, another heavily clamped door, and then we were into what was obviously the control center of the «Dolphin». To the left was a partitioned-off radio room, to the right a battery of machines and dialed panels of incomprehensible purpose, and straight ahead, a big chart table. Beyond that again, in the center, were massive mast housings and, still further on, the periscope stand with its twin periscopes. The whole control room was twice the size of any I'd ever seen in a conventional submarine but, even so, every square inch of bulkhead space seemed to be taken up by one type or another of highly complicated looking machines or instrument banks: even the deckhead was almost invisible, lost to sight above thickly twisted festoons of wires, cables and pipes of a score of different kinds.

The for'ard port side of the control room was for all the world like a replica of the flight deck of a modern multiengined jet airliner. There were two separate yoke aircraft type control columns, facing on to banks of hooded calibrated dials. Behind the yokes were two padded leather chairs, each chair, I could see, fitted with a safety belt to hold the helmsman in place. I wondered vaguely what type of violent maneuvers the «Dolphin» might be capable of when such safety belts were obviously considered essential to strap the helmsman down.

Opposite the control platform, on the other side of the passageway leading forward from the control room, was a second partitioned-off room. There was no indication what this might be and I wasn't given time to wonder. Hansen hurried down the passage, stopped at the first door on his left, and knocked. The door opened and Commander Swanson appeared.

"Ah, there you are. Sorry you've been kept waiting, Dr. Carpenter. We're sailing at six thirty, John" — this to Hansen. "You can have everything set up by then?"

"Depends how quickly the loading of the torpedoes goes, Captain."

"We're taking only six aboard."

Hansen lifted an eyebrow but made no comment. He said, "Loading them into the tubes?"

"In the racks. They have to be worked on."

"No spares?"

"No spares."

Hansen nodded and left. Swanson led me into his cabin and closed the door behind him.

Commander Swanson's cabin was bigger than a telephone booth, I'll say that for it, but not all that much bigger to shout about. A built-in bunk, a folding washbasin, a small writing desk and chair, a folding camp stool, a locker, some calibrated repeater-instrument dials above the bunk, and that was it. If you'd tried to perform the twist in there, you'd have fractured yourself in a dozen places without ever moving your feet from the center of the floor.

"Dr. Carpenter," Swanson said, "I'd like you to meet Admiral Garvie, Commander U. S. Nato naval forces."

Admiral Garvie put down the glass he was holding in his hand, rose from the only chair, and stretched out his hand. As he stood with his feet together, the far from negligible clearance between his knees made it easy to understand the latter part of his "Andy Bandy" nickname: like Hansen, he'd have been at home on the range. He was a tall, florid-faced man with white hair, white eyebrows and a twinkle in the blue eyes below; he had that certain indefinable something about him common to all senior naval officers the world over, irrespective of race or nationality.

"Glad to meet you, Dr. Carpenter. Sorry for the — um — lukewarm reception you received, but Commander Swanson was perfectly within his rights in acting as he did. His men have looked after you?"

"They permitted me to buy them a cup of coffee in the canteen."

He smiled. "Opportunists all, those nuclear men. I feel that the good name of American hospitality is in danger. Whisky, Dr. Carpenter?"

"I thought American naval ships were dry, sir."

"So they are, my boy, so they are. Except for a little medicinal alcohol, of course. My personal supply." He produced a hip flask about the size of a canteen and reached for a convenient shot glass. "Before venturing into the remoter fastnesses of the Highlands of Scotland, the prudent man takes the necessary precautions. I have to make an apology to you, Dr. Carpenter. I saw your Admiral Hewson in London last night and had intended to be here this morning to persuade Commander Swanson here to take you aboard. But I was delayed."

"Persuade, sir?"

"Persuade." He sighed. "Our nuclear-submarine captains, Dr. Carpenter, are a touchy and difficult bunch. From the proprietary attitude they adopt toward their submarines you'd think that each one of them was a majority shareholder in the Electric Boat Company of Groton, where most of those boats are built." He raised his glass. "Success to the commander and yourself. I hope you manage to find those poor devils. But I don't give you one chance in a thousand."

"I think we'll find them, sir. Or Commander Swanson will."

"What makes you so sure?" he asked slowly. "Hunch?"

"You could call it that."

He laid down his glass and his eyes were no longer twinkling. "Admiral Hewson was most evasive about you, I must say. Who are you, Carpenter? «What» are you?"

"Surely he told you, Admiral? Just a doctor attached to the Navy to carry out — "

"A naval doctor?"

"Well, not exactly. I — "

"A civilian?"

I nodded, and the admiral and Swanson exchanged looks that they were at no pains at all to conceal from me. If they were happy at the prospect of having aboard America's latest and most secret submarine a man who was not only a foreigner but a civilian to boot, they were hiding it well. Admiral Garvie said: "Well, go on."

"That's all. I carry out environmental health studies for the services. How men react to extremes of environmental conditions, such as in the Arctic or the tropics, how they react to conditions of weightlessness in simulated space flight or to extremes of pressure when having to escape from submarines. Mainly — "

"Submarines." Admiral Garvie pounced on the word. "You have been to sea in submarines, Dr. Carpenter? Really sailed in them, I mean?"

"I had to. We found that simulated tank escapes were no substitute for the real thing."

The admiral and Swanson looked unhappier than ever. A foreigner — bad. A foreign civilian — worse. But a foreign civilian with at least a working knowledge of submarines — terrible. I didn't have to be beaten over the head to see their point of view. I would have felt just as unhappy in their shoes.

"What's your interest in Drift Ice Station Zebra, Dr. Carpenter?" Admiral Garvie asked bluntly. -

"The Admiralty asked me to go there, sir."

"So I gather, so I gather," Garvie said wearily. "Admiral Hewson made that quite plain to me already. Why you, Carpenter?"

"I have some knowledge of the Arctic, sir. I'm supposed to be an expert on the medical treatment of men subjected to prolonged exposure, frostbite and gangrene. I might be able to save lives or limbs that your own doctor aboard might not."

"I could have half a dozen such experts here in a few hours," Garvie said evenly. "Regular officers of the U. S. Navy, at that. That's not enough, Carpenter."

This was becoming difficult. I tried again. I said, "I know Drift Station Zebra. I helped select the site. I helped establish the camp. The commandant, a Major Halliwell, has been my closest friend for many years." The last was only half the truth, but I felt that this was neither the time nor the place for overelaboration.

"Well, well," Garvie said thoughtfully. "And you still claim you're just an ordinary doctor?"

"My duties are flexible, sir."

"I'll say they are. Well, then, Carpenter, if you're just a common garden-variety sawbones, how do you explain this?" He picked up a signal form from the table and handed it to me. "This has just arrived in reply to Commander Swanson's radioed query to Washington about you."

I looked at the signal. It read: "Dr. Neil Carpenter bona fide beyond question. He may be taken into your fullest, repeat, fullest confidence. He is to be extended every facility and all aid short of actually endangering the safety of your submarine and the lives of your crew." It was signed by the Chief of Naval Operations.

"Very civil of the Chief of Naval Operations, I must say." I handed back the telegram. "With a character reference like this, what are you worrying about? That ought to satisfy anyone."

"It doesn't satisfy me," Garvie said heavily. "The ultimate responsibility for the safety of the «Dolphin» is mine. This message more or less gives you carte blanche to behave as you like, to ask Commander Swanson to act in ways that might be contrary to his better judgment. I can't have that."

"Does it matter what you can or can't have? You have your orders. Why don't you obey them?"

He didn't hit me. He didn't even bat an eyelid. He wasn't activated by pique about the fact that he wasn't privy to the reason for the seeming mystery of my presence there; he was genuinely concerned about the safety of the submarine. He said: "If I think it more important that the «Dolphin» should remain on an active war footing rather than go haring off on a wildgoose chase to the Arctic, or if I think you constitute a danger to the submarine, I can countermand the C.N.O.'s orders. I'm the Commander-in-Chief on the spot. And I'm not satisfied."

This was damnably awkward. He meant every word he said, and he didn't look the type who would give a hoot for the consequences if he believed himself to be in the right. I looked at both men, looked at them slowly and speculatively, the unmistakable gaze, I hoped, of a man who was weighing others in the balance; what I was really doing was thinking up a suitable story that would satisfy both. After I had given enough time to my weighing-up — and my thinking — I dropped my voice a few decibels and said: "Is that door sound-proof?"

"More or less," Swanson said. He'd lowered his own voice to match mine.

"I won't insult either of you by swearing you to secrecy or any such rubbish," I said quietly. "I want to put on record the fact that what I am about to tell you I am telling you under duress, under Admiral Garvie's threat to refuse me transport if I don't comply with his wishes."

"There will be no repercussions," Garvie said.

"How do you know? Not that it matters now. Well, gentlemen, the facts are these. Drift Ice Station Zebra is officially classed as an Air Ministry meteorological station. Well, it belongs to the Air Ministry, all right, but there's not more than a couple of qualified meteorologists among its entire personnel."

Admiral Garvie refilled the glass and passed it to me without a word, without a flicker of change in his expression. The old boy certainly knew how to play it cool.

"What you will find there," I went on, "are some of the most highly skilled men in the world in the fields of radar, radio, infrared, and electronic computers, operating the most advanced instruments ever used in those fields. We know now, never mind how, the count-down succession of signals the Russians use in the last minute before launching a missile. There's a huge dish aerial in Zebra that can pick up and amplify any such signals within seconds of its beginning. Then long-range radar and infrared home-in on that bearing and within three minutes of the rocket's lift-off they have its height, speed, and course pinpointed to an infinitesimal degree of error. The computers do this, of course. One minute later the information is in the hands of all the antimissile stations between Alaska and Greenland. One minute more and solidfuel infrared homing antimissile rockets are on their way: then the enemy missiles will be intercepted and harmlessly destroyed while still high over the Arctic regions. If you look at a map, you will see that in its present position Drift Ice Station Zebra is sitting practically on Russia's missile doorstep. It's hundreds of miles in advance of the present DEW line — the 'distant early warning' system. Anyway, it renders the DEW line obsolete."

"I'm only the office boy around those parts," Garvie said quietly. "I've never heard of any of this before."

I wasn't surprised. I'd never heard any of it myself, either, not until I'd just thought it up a moment ago. Commander Swanson's reactions, if and when we ever got to Drift Station Zebra, were going to be very interesting. But I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. At present, my only concern was to get there.

"Outside the drift station itself," I said, "I doubt if a dozen people in the world know what goes on there. But now you know. And you can appreciate how vitally important it is to the free world that this base be maintained in bein amp; If anything has happened to it, we want to find out just as quickly as possible «what» has happened so that we can get it operating again."

"I still maintain that you're not an ordinary doctor," Garvie smiled. "Commander Swanson, how soon can you get under way?" — -

"Finish loading the torpedoes, move alongside the «Hunley»load some final food stores, pick up extra Arctic clothing, and that's it, sir."

"Just like that? You said you wanted to make a slowtime dive out in the loch to check the planes and adjust the underwater trim — those missing torpedoes up front are going to make a difference, you know."

"That's before I heard Dr. Carpenter. Now I want to get up there just as fast as he does, sir. I'll see if immediate trim checks are necessary: if not, we can carry — them out at sea."

"It's your boat," Garvie acknowledged. "I'd give my two remaining back teeth to come with you, Commander. Where are you going to accommodate Dr. Carpenter, by the way?"

"There's space for a cot in the exec's and engineer's cabin." He smiled at me. "I've already had your suitcase put in there."

"Did you have much trouble with the lock?" I inquired.

He had the grace to color slightly. "It's the first time I've ever seen a combination lock on a suitcase," he admitted. "It was that more than anything else — and the fact that we couldn't open it — that made the admiral and myself so suspicious. I've still one or two things to discuss with the admiral, so I'll take you to your quarters now. Dinner's at eight."

"I'd rather skip dinner, thanks."

"No one ever gets seasick on the «Dolphin», I can assure you," Swanson smiled.

"I'd appreciate the chance to sleep instead. I've had no sleep for almost three days and I've been traveling non-stop for the past fifty hours. I'm just tired, that's all."

"That's a fair amount of traveling," Swanson smiled. He seemed to be smiling almost always, and I supposed vaguely that there would be some people foolish enough to take that smile always at its face value. "Where were you fifty hours ago, Doctor?"

"In the Antarctic."

Admiral Garvie gave me a very old-fashioned look indeed, but he let it go at that.