p&c.icelimit-第82节

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　And　then　one　of　the　boats　vanished。　One　moment　it　was　there；　running　lights　winking；　diving　into　yet　another　wave；　and　then　it　was　gone；　buried；　its　lights　cut　out　as　abruptly　as　if　shut　off　with　a　switch。
　〃We've　lost　the　beacon　on　number　three　boat；　sir；〃　said　the　man　in　the　bow。
　McFarlane　let　his　head　sink　toward　his　chest。　Who　had　been　in　that　boat？　Garza？　Stonecipher？　His　mind　did　not　work　anymore。　A　part　of　him　now　hoped　they　too　would　go　down　as　swiftly；　he　longed　for　a　quick　ending　to　this　agony。　The　water　in　the　bottom　of　the　boat　was　getting　deeper。　He　realized；　vaguely；　that　they　were　sinking。
　And　then　the　seas　began　to　quiet。　The　craft　was　still　pitching　and　bobbing　in　ferocious　chop；　but　the　endless　procession　of　watery　mountains　beneath　them　ceased；　and　the　wind　fell。
　〃We're　in　the　lee；〃　said　Howell。　His　hair　was　matted　and　lank；　the　uniform　beneath　the　foul…weather　gear　soaked。　Blood　mingled　with　water　in　pink　rivulets　that　ran　down　his　face。　And　yet　when　he　spoke；　his　hoarse　voice　was　steady。　Again　he　had　the　radio。
　〃I　need　your　attention！　Both　boats　are　taking　on　water；　fast。　They　won't　stay　afloat　much　longer。　We've　got　only　one　choice　…　to　transfer　ourselves　and　as　many　provisions　as　we　can　carry　to　the　ice　island。　Understood？〃
　Very　few　in　the　boat　looked　up；　they　seemed　beyond　caring。　The　feeble　beacon　on　their　boat　swept　the　flank　of　ice。　〃There's　a　small　ice　ledge　up　ahead。　We'll　run　the　boats　right　up　on　it。　Lewis　in　the　bow　will　pass　out　supplies　to　each　of　you　and　take　you　out　two　at　a　time；　fast。　If　you　fall　in　the　water；　get　the　hell　out　…　it'll　kill　you　in　five　minutes。　Now　buddy　up。〃
　McFarlane　drew　Rachel　protectively　toward　him；　then　turned　to　look　at　Lloyd。　The　man　stared　back　this　time；　his　eyes　dark；　hollow；　haunted。
　〃What　have　I　done？〃　he　whispered　hoarsely。　〃Oh　my　God；　what　have　I　done？〃
　
　Drake　Passage；
　July　26；　11：00　A。M。
　
　DAWN　ROSE　over　the　ice　island。
　McFarlane；　who　had　passed　in　and　out　of　a　fitful　doze；　was　slow　in　waking。　At　last　he　raised　his　head；　the　ice　crackling　off　his　coat　as　he　did　so。　Around　him；　a　small　group　of　survivors　had　huddled　together　for　warmth。　Some　lay　on　their　backs；　their　faces　coated　with　ice；　their　eyes　open；　frosted　over。　Others　were　half　upright；　on　their　knees；　unmoving。　They　must　be　dead；　McFarlane　thought　in　a　dreamy　sort　of　way。　A　hundred　had　begun　the　voyage。　And　now　he　could　see　barely　two　dozen。
　Rachel　lay　before　him；　her　eyes　closed。　He　struggled　to　a　sitting　position；　snow　sliding　from　his　limbs。　The　wind　was　gone；　and　a　deathly　stillness　surrounded　them；　underlined　by　the　thunder　of　surf　below　them；　worrying　the　margins　of　the　ice　island。
　Before　him　stretched　a　tableland　of　turquoise　ice；　cut　with　rivulets　that　deepened　into　canyons　as　they　snaked　off　to　the　edges　of　the　island。　A　red　line；　like　a　streak　of　blood；　tinted　the　eastern　horizon；　dribbling　color　across　the　heaving　seas。　In　the　distance；　the　horizon　was　dotted　with　blue　and　green　icebergs：　hundreds　of　them；　like　jewels；　stationary　in　the　swell；　their　tops　glistening　in　the　morning　light。　It　was　an　unending　landscape　of　water　and　ice。
　He　felt　terribly　sleepy。　Odd　that　he　was　no　longer　cold。　He　struggled　to　bring　himself　awake。　Now；　slowly；　it　came　back　to　him：　the　landing；　climbing　a　crevasse　to　the　top　in　the　blackness；　the　wretched　attempts　to　light　a　fire；　the　slow　slide　into　lethargy。　There　was　the　time　before；　too　…　before　all　this　…　but　he　did　not　want　to　think　of　that　right　now。　Right　now；　his　world　had　shrunk　to　the　edges　of　this　strange　island。
　Here；　on　its　top；　there　was　no　feeling　of　motion。　It　was　as　solid　as　land。　The　great　procession　of　rollers　continued　eastward；　smoother　now。　After　the　black　of　the　night　and　the　gray　of　the　storm；　everything　seemed　tinted　in　pastels；　the　blue　ice；　the　pink　sea；　the　red…and…peach　sky。　It　was　beautiful；　strange；　otherworldly。
　He　tried　to　stand；　but　his　legs　ignored　the　mand　and　he　only　rose　to　one　knee　before　falling　back。　He　felt　an　exhaustion　so　profound　it　took　a　supreme　effort　of　will　not　to　sink　back　to　the　ground。　A　dim　part　of　his　mind　realized　it　was　more　than　exhaustion　…　it　was　hypothermia。
　They　had　to　get　up；　move。　He　had　to　rouse　them。
　He　turned　to　Rachel　and　shook　her　roughly。　Her　lidded　eyes　swiveled　around　to　him。　Her　lips　were　blue　and　ice　clung　to　her　black　hair。
　〃Rachel；〃　he　croaked。　〃Rachel；　get　up；　please。〃
　Her　lips　moved　and　spoke；　but　it　was　a　hiss　of　air；　without　sound。
　〃Rachel？〃　He　bent　down。　He　could　hear　her　words　now；　sibilant；　ghostly。
　〃The　meteorite。。。〃　she　murmured。
　〃It　went　to　the　bottom；〃　McFarlane　said。　〃Don't　think　about　it　now。　It's　over。〃
　She　shook　her　head　faintly。　〃No。。。　not　what　you　think。。。〃
　She　closed　her　eyes；　and　he　shook　her　again。　〃So　sleepy。。。〃
　〃Rachel。　Don't　go　to　sleep。　What　were　you　saying？〃　She　was　rambling；　delusional；　but　he　realized　it　was　important　to　keep　her　talking　and　awake。　He　shook　her　again。　〃The　meteorite；　Rachel。　What　about　it？〃　Her　eyes　half　opened；　and　she　glanced　downward。　McFarlane　followed　her　gaze；　there　was　nothing。　Her　hand　stirred　slightly。
　〃There。。。〃　she　said；　looking　down。
　McFarlane　took　her　hand。　He　pulled　off　the　sodden；　halffrozen　gloves。　Her　hand　was　freezing；　her　fingertips　white。　Now　he　understood：　her　fingers　were　frostbitten。　He　tried　to　massage　the　fingers　and　the　hand　relaxed。　She　was　holding　a　peanut。
　〃Are　you　hungry？〃　McFarlane　asked　as　the　nut　rolled　away　into　the　snow。　Rachel　closed　her　eyes　again。　He　tried　to　rouse　her　and　could　not。　He　pressed　himself　against　her；　and　her　body　was　heavy　and　cold。　He　turned　for　help　and　found　Lloyd；　lying　on　the　ice　beside　them。
　〃Lloyd？〃　he　whispered。
　〃Yes；〃　came　the　faint；　gravelly　voice。
　〃We've　got　to　move。〃　McFarlane　found　himself　growing　short　of　breath。
　〃Not　interested。〃
　McFarlane　turned　back　to　shake　Rachel　again；　but　he　could　hardly　move　his　own　arm　now；　let　alone　apply　force　to　her。　She　was　inert。　The　loss　seemed　more　than　he　could　fathom。　He　looked　out　over　the　huddled；　unmoving　shapes；　glistening　under　their　thin　coatings　of　ice。　There　was　Brambell；　the　doctor；　with　a　book　crooked　incongruously　under　his　arm。　There　was　Garza；　the　white　of　his　bandaged　head　rimed　in　frost。　There　was　Howell。　Two；　maybe　three　dozen　others。　No　one　was　moving。　Suddenly　he　found　he　cared；　cared　very　much。　He　wanted　to　yell；　to　get　up　and　start　kicking　and　punching　people　to　their　feet；　but　he　couldn't　even　find　the　energy　to　speak。　There　were　too　many　of　them；　he　couldn't　warm　them　all。　He　couldn't　even　warm　himself。
　His　head　swam　as　a　strange；　inky　sensation　overcame　him。　Apathy　came　creeping。　We're　all　going　to　die　here；　he　thought；　but　it's　okay。　He　looked　over　at　Rachel；　trying　to　shake　the　inkiness　off。　Her　eyes　were　half　open　now；　rolled　up；　just　the　whites　showing。　Her　face　was　gray。　He　would　go　where　she　had　gone。　It　was　okay。　A　single　snowflake　drifted　out　of　the　sky　and　touched　her　lips。　It　took　a　long　time　to　melt。
　The　inkiness　returned；　and　this　time　it　was　good；　like　sleeping　in　his　mother's　arms　once　again；　and　he　gave　in　to　it。　As　he　drifted　off　into　delicious　sleep；　Rachel's　voice　kept　going　through　his　mind：　Not　what　you　think。　Not　what　you　think。　
　And　then　the　voice　changed：　louder；　more　metallic。　〃South　Georgia　Bravo。。。　In　sight。。。　Approaching　for　a　high…line　pickup。。。〃
　A　light　appeared　overhead。　There　was　a　clattering；　a　rhythmic　beating。　Voices；　a　radio。　He　struggled　against　it　all。　No；　no；　let　me　sleep！　Leave　me　be！　
　And　then　the　pain　began。
　
　
　South　Georgia　Island；
　July　29；　12：20　P。M。
　
　PALMER　LLOYD　lay　in　a　plywood　bunk　bed　in　the　infirmary　hut　of　the　British　scientific　station。　He　stared　at　the　plywood　ceiling：　endless　loops　of　dark　and　light　wood；　patterns　his　eyes　had　traced　a　thousand　times　over　the　recent　days。　He　smelled　the　stale　food　that　had　been　sitting　by　his　bed　since　lunchtime。　He　heard　the　sound　of　wind　outside　the　tiny　window　that　peeked　out　over　the　blue　snowfields；　blue　mountains；　and　blue　glaciers　of　the　island。
　It　had　been　three　days　since　their　rescue。　So　many　had　died；　on　the　ship；　in　the　lifeboats；　on　the　ice　island。　But　one　man　of　her　crew　alive；　what　put　to　sea　with　seventy…five。。。　The　old　sea…ditty　from　Treasure　Island　ran　through　his　head；　as　it　had　run；　over　and　over　and　over；　since　he　had　first　regained　consciousness　here　in　this　bed。
　He　had　survived。　Tomorrow；　a　helicopter　would　take　him　to　the　Falklands。　From　there　he　would　return　to　New　York。　Distantly；　he　wondered　how　the　media　was　going　to　report　this　one。　He　found　that　he　didn't　care。　So　little　seemed　important　anymore。　He　was　finished：　finished　with　the　museum；　finished　with　business；　finished　with　science。　All　his　dreams　…　they　seemed　so　ancient　now　…　had　gone　to　the　bottom　with　the　rock。　All　he　wanted　to　do　was　go　to　his　farm　in　upstate　New　York；　mix　a　stiff　martini；　sit　in　the　rocking　chair　on　the　porch；　and　watch　the　deer　eat　apples　in　his　orchard。
　An　orderly　came　in；　removed　the　tray；　and　began　to　put　down　another。
　Lloyd　shook　his　head。
　〃It's　my　job；　mate；〃　the　orderly　said。
　〃Very　well。〃
　At　that　moment　there　was　a　knock　on　the　door。　McFarlane　came　in。　His　left　hand　and　part