Ice Station Zebra

"I still don't believe it," I said.

"We cleared the Holy Loch a little earlier than I expected, before seven," Swanson admitted. "I had intended to carry out some slow-time dives to adjust trim, but it wasn't necessary. Even the lack of twelve torpedoes up in the nose didn't make her as stern-heavy as I'd expected. She's so damned big that a few tons more or less or here or there doesn't seem to make any difference to her. So we just came barreling on up — "

He broke off to accept a signal sheet from a sailor, and read through it slowly, taking his time about it. Then ho jerked his head, walked to a quiet corner of the control center, and faced me as I came up to him. He still wasn't smiling.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Major Halliwell, the commandant of the drift station… You said last night he was a very close friend of yours?"

I felt my mouth begin to go dry. I nodded, and took the message from him. It read:

A further radio message, very broken and difficult to decipher, was received 0945 Greenwich Mean Time from Drift Ice Station Zebra by the British trawler «Morning Star», the vessel that picked up the previous broadcast. Message stated that Major Halliwell, Officer Commanding, and three others, u

«Morning Star» several times attempted contact Drift Station Zebra immediately afterward. No acknowledgment.

«Morning Star», at request of British Admiralty, has abandoned fishing grounds and is moving closer in to Barrier to act as listening post. Message ends.

I folded the paper and handed it back to Swanson. He said again, "Sorry about this, Carpenter."

"Critically injured or dead," I said. "In a burnt-out station on the ice cap in winter, what's the difference?" My voice fell upon my ears as the voice of another man, a voice flat and lifeless, a voice empty of all emotion. "Joh

"Two nieces — " He broke off and stared at me. "Good God, your brother? «Your» brother?" He didn't, for the moment, seem to find anything peculiar in the difference of surname.

I nodded silently. Young Lieutenant Raeburn approached us, an odd expression of anxiety on his face, but Swanson abruptly waved him away without even glancing in his direction. He shook his head slowly and was still shaking it when I said abruptly: "He's tough. He may be one of the survivors. He may live. We must get Drift Station Zebra's position. We «must» get it."

"Maybe they haven't got it themselves," Swanson said. I could see that he was grateful for something to talk about. "It «is» a drifting station, remember. The weather being what it is, it may have been days since they got their last fixes, and for all we know, their sextants, chronometers and radio direction finders have been lost in the fire."

"They must know what their latest fix was, even though it was a week ago. They must have a fairly accurate idea of the speed and direction of their drift. They'll be able to provide approximate data. The «Morning Star» must be told to keep transmitting non-stop with a continuous request for their position. If you surface now, can you contact the «Morning Star?»"

"I doubt it. The trawler must be the best part of a thousand miles north of us. His receiver wouldn't be big enough to pull us in — which is another way of saying that our transmitter is too small."

"The B.B.C. have -plenty of transmitters that are big enough. So have the Admiralty. Please ask one or the other to contact the «Morning Star» and ask it to make a continuous send for Zebra's position."

"They could do that themselves direct."

"Sure they could. But they couldn't hear the reply. The «Morning Star» can — if there's any reply. And she's getting closer to them all the time."

"We'll surface now," Swanson nodded. He turned away from the chart table we'd been standing beside and headed for the diving stand. As he passed the plotting table he said to the navigator: "What was it you wanted, Will?"

Lieutenant Raeburn turned his back on me and lowered his voice, but my hearing has always been a little abnormal. He whispered: "Did you see his face, Captain? I thought he was going to haul off and sock you."

"I thought the same thing myself," Swanson murmured. "For a moment. But I think I just happened to be in his line of vision, that's all."

I went forward to my cabin and lay down in the cot.

3

"There it is, then," said Swanson. "That's the Barrier."

The «Dolphin», heading due north, her great cylindrical bulk at one moment completely submerged, the next showing clear as she rolled heavily through the steep quartering seas, was making less than three knots through the water, the great nuclear-powered engines providing just enough thrust to the big twin eight-foot propellers to provide steerage way and no more. Thirty feet below where we stood on the bridge the finest sonar equipment in the world was ceaselessly probing the waters all around us but even so Swanson was taking no chances on the effects of collision with a drifting ice block. The noon-day Arctic sky was so overcast that the light was no better than that of late dusk. The bridge thermometer showed the sea temperature to be 28°F., the air temperature — I 6°F. The gale-force wind from the northeast was snatching the tops off the rolling steel-gray waves and subjecting the steep-walled sides of the great co

Shivering uncontrollably, wrapped in a heavy duffel coat and oilskins and huddled against the illusory shelter of the canvas wind-dodger, I followed the line of Swanson's pointing a