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By Root 615 0

face to protect it from the tumbling contents. A manna of material crumbled down to what used to be the ceiling. His limbs quivering from the cold, Brentford groped about in the heap, hoping to locate a spare flashlight and the primus stove, which he hoped hadn’t suffered from its fall. He found the time excruciatingly long before he could place his hand on the Ever Ready lamp. And then there was light, revealing the disheartening chaos of the topsy-turvy cabin, the instruments broken, the maps scattered everywhere as if a storm had blown inside the ship. By chance, the solid glass windshields had been spared. He rummaged for the extra batteries, and for the primus stove that would save his life—whatever it would be saved for. From time to time a loud crack from outside made him start, but he controlled himself, remembering that he was going to suffer more from loneliness than from intruders. The stove was there, and it seemed in working order. It would not be enough to heat the cabin, but he would have warm meals for a while, and maybe reach Heaven with a full stomach, something many dead explorers would have envied him for.

He retrieved a watch that, still ticking, informed him that it was around two o’clock, probably A.M. though maybe he had already reached a latitude where the polar night still extended throughout the entire day. From where he barely stood, the unhelpful stars were invisible, and he did not feel like going out to check them just then. His idea was to hope for the crack of dawn that would come sooner or later, then use his sextant and, according to his bearings, either abandon ship, dragging the spare light sled he had in the hold, or stay there and send some flashing balloon message.

Rubbing his limbs through the extra fur clothes he had picked up, and using his flashlight as sparingly as he could, he Robinson-Crusoed or, rather, Allan-Gordoned his way through the following hours, trying to organize his anti-cabin in the most sensible manner while waiting for daybreak. The top of his bunk, seemingly solid enough to hold his weight, had been fitted with a mattress and a caribou fur–lined bag, inside which he could enjoy relative warmth. That way, he would make, he thought, one of those comfortably tucked-in corpses that rescue parties sometimes end up finding, a grin of welcome on his blackened face.

Using a wooden spoon, he ate clam soup from a half-warmed tin can and drank a little brandy straight from the bottle, trying hard to think of a way out of his situation while trying equally hard to forget about it for a while. Outside, the ice snored uneasily, grumbling in its sleep, having nightmares, no doubt, about all the men it had killed, ready to turn violently and smother the Kinngait. Great, thought Brentford with a sigh. He understood he was not going to sleep, as deep down some primeval, childish fear had gotten hold of his guts. Even the faceless banshee whom he had followed so blindly now filled him with a retrospective awe. He was finally dozing off a little, though, when the voices woke him up.

He could be wrong, of course. It could have been some trick of the wind, some spillover from an interrupted dream, a classic Arctic hallucination. But as he pricked up his ears, now sure that he was awake, he could hear them again, not only the voices but also the steps that crunched closer to the ship. He could not believe it. People. Here. So soon. Grasping the flashlight, crawling out of the caribou sleeping bag, and banging his head against the lower edge of the upturned bunk, he managed to land on the ceiling and hurried toward the windshield. He had not dreamed. There were human shapes, all around the ship, all carrying hurricane lamps and cautiously approaching. He was about to flash his lamp when one of the shapes lifted its lantern to its own face.

Brentford recoiled in horror.

There was no face, nothing but a mummified grin and eyes bulging out.

Brentford’s stomach knotted and he felt himself melting in a prickly cold sweat. He closed his eyes and looked again, trembling. There were