The Blue Ice

As I leaned on the boom, watching his deft fingers securing the peak of the sail to the main gaff, I couldn't help thinking what a loss men like he were to the country. So many were getting out. His eyes met mine and he grinned. 'Okay, Bill,' he said. 'Hoist away.'

With Carter on the peak halyard and myself on the throat we ran the mainsail up. The canvas was snowy white against the dark background of the warehouses. It slatted back and forth in the wind. We manned the peak and throat purchases. 'She's going to set nicely,' Dick said.

I looked along the deck. Everything was neatly coiled down. The deck planking was scrubbed white. Brass-work gleamed in the dull light. She was a lovely boat. She was a gaff-rigged ketch of fifty tons and she'd been built in the days when ships were expected to go anywhere. I'd had her stripped out inside and refitted to my own design. A new main mast had been stepped. The rigging was all new, so were the sails and I'd had her auxiliary replaced by a big ex-naval engine. For the first time since the war ended I felt the world at my feet. I'd stores and fuel and a crew — there was no place in the world Diviner wouldn't take me.

Dick sensed my thoughts. 'With a fair wind we'll be in the sun in a week's time,' he said, squinting up at the grey clouds scudding past our burgee.

I looked up at the envious faces lining Tower Bridge. 'Yes,' I said. 'Algiers, Naples, the Piraeus, Port Said…'

And then I saw Sir Clinton Mann coming across the wharf, Sir Clinton is chairman of B.M. & I. - a tall man with stooping shoulders and an abrupt manner. He'd come into the business by way of the City. He represented money and statistics. He was as remote as a cabinet minister from the sweat and toil of production. He looked strangely incongruous in his City hat as he climbed down on to the deck.

'Good-morning, Sir Clinton,' I said, wondering why he had come. His eyes regarded me coldly as I went forward to meet him. I was conscious of my dirty jersey and corduroys. I'd never met him anywhere outside of a board-room. 'Would you care to look over the ship?' I asked.

'No,' he said. 'I'm here on business, Gansert.' I took him down to the saloon. 'When do you sail?' he asked.

'Tommorow,' I said. 'On the morning tide.'

'For the Mediterranean?'

I nodded.

'I want you to change your plans, Gansert,' he said. 'I want you to go to Norway instead.'

'Why?' I asked, puzzled at his suggestions. And then, quickly, in case he should take that as an indication that I would: 'I'm sorry, Sir Clinton. But I'm leaving tomorrow for-'

He held up his hand. 'Listen to me first, Gansert,' he said. 'You're no longer connected with B.M. & I. - I know that. But you can't give eight years of your life to a concern without something of it sticking to you. Those thorite alloys, for instance. You started that. They were developed as a result of your efforts. And if we could get into full production-'

'That's a pipe dream,' I told him. 'And you know it. Thorite costs dollars. And even if you'd got all the dollars in the world, there just isn't enough of the stuff. American output is negligible, and that's the only known source.'

'Is it?' He fished a small wooden box from the pocket of his overcoat and pushed it across the table at me. Then what's this?' he asked.

I lifted the lid. Inside, resting on cotton wool, was a lump of metallic-looking ore. I lifted it out and with sudden excitement took it over to the window. 'Where did you get this?' I asked.

'First, what is it?' he asked.

'I can't be certain until tests have been made,' I told him. 'But I'd say it's thorite.'

He nodded. 'It is thorite,' he said. 'We've been through all the tests.'

I looked out of the window at the smoke and dirt of London's river. I was thinking of long assembly lines pouring out thorite alloy equipment, stronger than steel, lighter than aluminium, rustless and bright. If we could mine thorite in quantity then Britain would no longer lose ground to America. 'Where was this mined?' I asked.

He sat back in his chair again. 'That's what I don't know,' he said.

'But surely,' I said, 'you know where it came from?'

He nodded. 'Yes, I know where it came from.' His voice was dry and unemotional. 'A fishmonger in Hartlepool sent it to me.'

'A fishmonger in Hartlepool?' I stared at him. I thought he was joking.

'Yes,' he said. 'He found it in a case of whale meat.'

'You mean it came from the stomach of a whale?' I was thinking of untold mineral wealth that was supposed to be hidden under the Antarctic ice.

'No,' he replied. 'The whale meat came from Norway. And that lump of ore hadn't been absorbed into the digestive organs of a whale. It had been placed in a fold of the meat when it was packed.' He paused, and then said, 'We've checked up as far as we can from this end. The meat was part of a consignment dispatched to Newcastle by one of the Norwegian coastal stations.' He leaned forward. 'Gansert, I want your opinion. Who's the best man for us on Norway?'

'You mean for metals?' I asked.