Last Gasp

Nick buttoned up'his plaid shirt and pulled on a double-knit navy sweater. "I looked into the sick bay after breakfast. Grigson was feeding him soup and the guy was staring into space with peas and carrots lodged in his beard. What I can't understand is where he came from. How the hell did he get here?"

"It's a mystery all right."

"I mean, how far is the Russian base from here?"

"Five, maybe six hundred miles. But it hasn't been used in over two years. The main Soviet base, Mirnyy Station, is two thousand miles away on the edge of the Amery Ice Shelf."

Nick combed his fingers through his tangle of a beard. "One man and an eight-dog team never made it that far," he asserted positively.

"Did Grigson say anything about his condition?"

"Didn't ask. They've put his neck in a brace, which could mean he's injured his spine."

Chase finished lacing his boots and stood up straight, a good three inches taller than Nick. "Anybody here speak Russian?"

"Naw, don't think so." Nick thought for a moment. "Glyn Jones speaks three or four languages but Russian isn't one of them. Perhaps the mad Russkie speaks English."

Chase raised his dark eyebrows. "Want to find out?"

Dim green globes burned in the tiny sick bay, one above each of the four beds. The other three were empty, sheets and blankets folded in neat piles. The man in the bed nearest the door appeared to be sound asleep. He had a broad Slavic face and a flattened nose, the skin above the full black beard dark and crazed like old parchment. It was impossible to tell his age, though Chase guessed he was in his late forties, early fifties.

He was lying half-raised on a bank of pillows, the plastic surgical collar holding his head at a stiff, unnatural angle like that of a mummy in a sarcophagus. The green wash of light added to the eerie impression of a body recently excavated from the grave.

Grigson, the medical orderly, was absent, attending to some chore or other.

It didn't seem right to disturb the man, who might have been in a coma, though when Nick, in his usual direct fashion, went straight up to the bed and stared down inquisitively, the man opened his eyes at once and mumbled something in a hoarse broken voice. The words were unintelligible, the eyes cloudy.

From the foot of the bed Chase asked softly, "Is he sedated?"

Nick gave a slight shrug. He peered down and pressed the backs of his fingers to the man's forehead, on which there was a faint sheen of perspiration. "You know something, I think he is mad. Look at his eyes."

"Could be fever."

"Mmm." Nick shot a swift glance at Chase. "Maybe being out on the ice for so long snapped his mind. I think it would have snapped mine."

"How could we tell?" Chase murmured laconically. He leaned forward, seeing the cracked lips moving, straining to hear what he said. It was a word, all right. Sounded like Stan-or-Nick.

"So," Nick pondered, "it's either Stan or me, is it?" He enunciated very slowly and carefully, "We do not understand. Do you speak English? English--yes?"

"English," the man said distinctly. Nick brightened. Then the man said, "Nyet," and Nick's face fell.

"Try him with French," Chase suggested.

"I don't speak French, what about you?"

"Enough to ask the way to the Eiffel Tower and not understand a word of the reply." Chase became thoughtful, his dark eyes narrowing in his angular tanned face. "If he is Russian, which he sounds to be, he's either a scientist or with the military."

"Or he might have been prospecting for gold," said Nick glibly.

"You don't have much sympathy for a sick man."

"Sorry. Next time I'll bring him some grapes and a Barbara Cartland novel."

Chase came forward and gently took hold of the man's weathered right hand. "Remind me to send for you when I'm on my deathbed," he said, examining the small callous on the side of the middle finger, the kind caused by holding a pen. That could mean he was a scientist with a lot of desk work, writing up copious research notes. Was he a defector? Were the Russians out looking for him? Hell of a place to choose, making the break alone across two thousand miles of polar ice. Easier, and less of a risk, to pole-vault the Berlin Wall.

Chase was more intrigued than ever. He was about to lay the hand down when it tightened on his in a surprisingly strong grip and the cracked lips blurted out a torrent of words. The incomprehensible babble went on until it trailed off, leaving him choking for breath. Again Chase caught the word or phrase sounding like Stan-or-Nick. It was frustrating. The Russian was obviously desperate to communicate. His slitted eyes were glazed, staring blankly upward at the plywood ceiling, yet he spoke with force and conviction, desperation even: a man with an urgent message.

"Let's try him with a pad and pencil."

"Why, can you read Russian?"