alistairmaclean.nightwithoutend-第4节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　against　the　pressure　of　the　return　winding　spring。
　
　Without　my　mask；　that　blinding　suffocating　drift　was　a　nightmare；　a　cruel　refinement　of　contrasting　torture　where　the　burning　in　my　throat　contrasted　with　the　pain　of　my　freezing　face　for　dominance　in　my　mind。　I　was　coughing　constantly　in　the　super…chilled　air；　no　matter　how　I　tried　to　cover　mouth　and　nose　with　a　gloved　hand；　no　matter　how　shallowly　I　breathed　to　avoid　frosting　my　lungs。
　
　The　devil　of　it　was；　shallow　breathing　was　impossible。　We　were　running　now；　running　as　fast　as　the　ice…glazed　slipperiness　of　the　surface　and　our　bulky　furs　would　allow；　for　to　unprotected　people　exposed　to　these　temperatures；　to　that　murderous　drift…filled　gale；　life　or　death　was　simply　a　factor　of　speed；　of　the　duration　of　exposure。　Maybe　the　plane　had　ripped　open　or　broken　in　half；　catapulting　the　survivors　out　on　to　the　ice…cap…if　there　were　any　survivors：　for　them；　either　immediate　death　as　the　heart　failed　in　the　near　impossible　task　of　adjusting　the　body　to　an　instantaneous　change　of　over　100°　F；　or　death　by　exposure　within　five　minutes。　Or　maybe　they　were　all　trapped　inside　slowly　freezing。　How　to　get　at　them？　How　to　transport　them　all　back　to　the　cabin？　But　only　the　first　few　to　be　taken　could　have　any　hope。　And　even　if　we　did　get　them　all　back；　how　to　feed　them…for　our　own　supplies　were　already　dangerously　low？　And　where；　in　heaven's　name；　were　we　going　to　put　them　all？
　
　Jackstraw's　shout　checked　me　so　suddenly　that　I　stumbled　and　all　but　fell。　I　turned　back；　and　Joss　came　running　up。
　
　〃The　end　of　the　line？〃　I　asked。
　
　He　nodded；　flashed　a　torch　in　my　face。　〃Your　nose　and　cheek　…both　gone。　They　look　bad。〃
　
　Gloves　off；　I　kneaded　my　face　vigorously　with　my　mittened　hands　until　I　felt　the　blood　pounding　painfully　back；　then　took　the　old　jersey　which　Jackstraw　dug　out　from　a　gunny　sack　and　wrapped　it　round　my　face。　It　wasn't　much；　but　it　was　better　than　nothing。
　
　We　struck　off　to　the　north；　with　the　wind　on　our　right　cheeks　…1　had　no　option　but　to　gamble　on　the　hope　that　the　wind　had　neither　backed　nor　veered…our　torches　probing　the　ground　in　front　of　us；　stopping　every　fifteen　or　twenty　feet　to　drive　a　pointed　bamboo　marker　into　the　frozen　ground。　We　had　covered　fifty　yards　without　sighting　anything；　and　I　was　just　beginning　to　bee　convinced　that　we　must　still　be　well　to　the　west　of　the　plane's　touchdown　point　and　wondering　what　in　the　world　we　should　do　next　when　we　almost　literally　stumbled　into　an　eighteen　inch　deep；　ten　foot　wide　depression　in　the　snow…crust　of　the　ice…cap。
　
　This　was　it；　no　question　about　that。　By　a　one　in　a　hundred　chance　we　had　hit　on　the　very　spot　where　the　plane　had　touched　down…or　crashed　down；　if　the　size　of　the　depression　in　that　frozen　snow　were　anything　to　go　by。　To　the　left；　the　west；　the　ground　was　virginal；　unmarked…ten　feet　to　that　side　and　we　should　have　missed　it　altogether。　To　the　east；　the　deep　depression　shelved　rapidly　upwards；　its　smooth　convexity　now　marred　by　two　large　gouge　marks；　one　in　the　centre　and　one　to　the　right　of　the　track；　as　if　a　pair　of　gigantic　ploughs　had　furrowed　through　the　ground：　part　of　the　under　fuselage　must　have　been　ripped　open　by　the　impact　…it　would　have　been　a　wonder　had　it　not　been。　Some　way　farther　to　the　east；　and　well　to　the　right　of　the　main　track；　two　other　grooves；　parallel　and　of　a　shallow　bowl　shape；　had　been　torn　in　the　snow。　The　gouge　marks；　plainly；　of　the　still…racing　propellers：　the　plane　must　have　tilted　over　on　its　right　wing　just　after　the　moment　of　landing。
　
　To　see　all　this　took　no　longer　than　to　sweep　a　torch　through　a　swift　semi…circle。　I　shouted　to　Joss　to　take　another　bundle　of　canes　and　prop　up　the　Homing　spool　line　that　led　back　to　the　antenna…　if　this　weren't　done　it　would　drift　over　and　be　lost　to　sight　in　ten　minutes…　and　then　rejoin　us：　then　I　turned　and　ran　after　Jackstraw　who　had　already　urged　his　team　forwards　and　eastwards　along　the　track　of　the　crashed　plane。
　
　The　wind　was　worse　than　ever；　the　drift　an　almost　solid　wall　that　reduced　our　speed　to　a　lurching　stumble　and　forced　us　to　lean　far　into　it　to　maintain　our　balance。　Two　hundred　yards；　three　hundred；　and　then；　almost　a　quarter　of　a　mile　from　where　it　had　touched　down　we　found　the　airliner　simply　by　walking　straight　into　it。　It　had　slewed　almost　90　degrees　as　it　had　e　to　a　halt；　and　was　lying　square　across　its　own　path；　still　resting　on　even　keel。
　
　In　the　feeble　light　of　my　torch　the　airliner；　even　although　its　fuselage　rested　on　the　ground；　seemed　immensely　high　and　to　stretch　away　for　a　vast　distance　on　either　side；　but　for　all　its　great　size　there　was　something　peculiarly　pathetic　and　forlorn　about　it。　But　this；　of　course；　was　purely　subjective；　the　knowledge　in　my　own　mind　that　this　crippled　giant　would　never　leave　here　again。
　
　I　could　hear　no　movement；　see　no　movement。　High　above　my　head　a　faint　blue　light　seemed　to　glow　behind　some　of　the　cabin　windows　but　apart　from　that　there　was　no　sign　of　life　at　all。
　
　
　CHAPTER　TWO…Monday　1　A。M。…2　A。M。
　
　My　greatest　fear　had　already　proved　groundless…there　was　no　sign　of　fire　anywhere；　no　flickering　red　to　see；　no　hidden　crackling　to　hear。　It　was　still　possible　that　some　small　tongue　of　flame　was　creeping　along　inside　the　fuselage　or　wings　looking　for　the　petrol　or　oil　that　would　help　it　blaze　into　destructive　life…and　with　that　wind　to　fan　the　flames；　destruction　would　have　been　plete　…but　it　hardly　seemed　worth　worrying　about：　and　it　was　unlikely　that　any　pilot　cool…headed　enough　to　turn　off　the　ignition　would　have　forgotten　to　shut　down　the　petrol　lines。
　
　Already　Jackstraw　had　plugged　our　searchlight　into　the　dry　battery　and　handed　me　the　lamp。　I　pressed　the　switch；　and　it　worked：　a　narrow　but　powerful　beam　good　for　six　hundred　yards　in　normal　conditions。　I　swung　the　beam　to　my　right；　then　brought　it　slowly　forward。
　
　Whatever　colours　the　plane　may　have　had　originally；　it　was　impossible　to　distinguish　any　of　them　now。　The　entire　fuselage　was　already　shrouded　in　a　sheet　of　thin　rimed　ice；　dazzling　to　the　eye；　reflecting　the　light　with　the　intensity；　almost；　of　a　chromed　mirror。　The　tail　unit　was　intact。　So；　too；　was　the　fuselage　for　half　its　length；　then　crumpled　and　torn　underneath；　directly　opposite　the　spot　where　we　stood。　The　left　wing　was　tilted　upwards　at　an　angle　of　about　five　degrees　above　the　normal…the　plane　wasn't　on　such　an　even　keel　as　I　had　first　thought。　From　where　I　stood　this　wing　blocked　off　my　view　of　the　front；　but　just　above　and　beyond　it　I　saw　something　that　made　me　temporarily　forget　the　urgency　of　my　concern　for　those　inside　and　stand　there；　stockstill；　the　beam　trained　unwaveringly　on　that　spot。
　
　Even　under　the　coating　of　ice　the　big　bold　lettering　'BOAC'　was　clearly　visible。　BOAC！　What　on　earth　was　a　BOAC　airliner　doing　in　this　part　of　the　world？　The　SAS　and　KLM；　I　knew；　operated　trans…Arctic　flights　from　Copenhagen　and　Amsterdam　to　Winnipeg；　Los　Angeles　and　Vancouver　via　Sondre　Stromfjord；　about　an　hour　and　a　half　s　flying　time　away　to　the　south…west　on　。　the　west　coast　of　Greenland；　just　on　the　Arctic　Circle；　and　I　was　pretty　sure　that　Pan　American　and　Trans　World　operated　reciprocal　services　on　the　same　route。　It　was　just　barely　possible　that　freak　weather　conditions　had　forced　one　of　these　planes　far　enough　off　course　to　account　for　its　presence　here；　but　if　I　was　right　about　the　BOAC；　it　just　wasn't　possible…
　
　〃I've　found　the　door；　Dr　Mason。〃　Jackstraw　had　taken　my　arm；　jerking　me　out　of　my　reverie；　and　was　pointing　to　a　big　oval　door　with　its　lowest　point　just　at　our　eye…level。　〃We　will　try　these；　perhaps？〃
　
　I　heard　the　metallic　clang　as　he　lifted　a　couple　of　crowbars　off　the　sledge；　and　nodded。　We　could　only　try。　I　set　the　searchlight　on　the　snow；　adjusted　it　on　its　gimbals　so　as　to　illuminate　the　door；　took　one　of　the　crowbars　and　thrust　it　beneath　the　foot　of　the　oval；　the　flattened　end　sliding　easily　between　door　and　fuselage。　Jackstraw　did　the　same。　We　heaved　together；　but　nothing　happened。　Again　we　heaved；　and　again；　our　feet　ing　clear　of　the　ground；　but　the　door　remained　immovable。　To　localise　pressure；　we　concentrated　on　one　bar；　and　this　time　we　felt　something　giving：　but　it　was　the　lever；　not　the　door。　With　a　pistol…shot　crack；　the　cold…weakened　crowbar　snapped　six　inches　from　the　end　and　we　both　landed　on　our　backs。
　
　Even　the　urgency　of　the　moment；　my　almost　plete　lack　of　knowledge　about　planes；　was　no　excuse。　I　cursed　my　stupidity　in　wasting　valuable　time　trying　to　force　open　a　massive　door　locked　on　the　inside　by　heavy　clips　designed　to　withstand　an　internal　pressure　of　many　thousands　of　pounds；　grabbed　searchlight　and　battery；　ducked　round　under　the　towering　tail　assembly　into　the　full　force　of　the　wind　and　flying　drift　and　moved　forward　till　I　came　to　the　right　wing。
　
　Its　tip　was　buried　deep　under　the　frozen　snow；　the　airscrew　blades　bent　back　at　right　angles　to　their　normal　line。　I　thought　perhaps　I　might　try　to　scramble　up　the　wing　towards　the　fuselage　and　smash　in　one　of　the　cabin　windows；　but　after　a　couple　of　seconds　wild　slithering　on　the　ice…sheeted　wing　in　that　gusting　gale　wind　I　gave　up　the　idea。　To　maintain　a　foot