surgical collar holding his head at a stiff, unnatural angle like that of a mummy in a sarcophagus. The green wash of light added to the eerie impression of a body recently excavated from the grave.
Grigson, the medical orderly, was absent, attending to some chore or other.
It didn’t seem right to disturb the man, who might have been in a coma, though when Nick, in his usual direct fashion, went straight up to the bed and stared down inquisitively, the man opened his eyes at once and mumbled something in a hoarse broken voice. The words were unintelligible, the eyes cloudy.
From the foot of the bed Chase asked softly, “Is he sedated?”
Nick gave a slight shrug. He peered down and pressed the backs of his fingers to the man’s forehead, on which there was a faint sheen of perspiration. “You know something, I think he is mad. Look at his eyes.”
“Could be fever.”
“Mmm.” Nick shot a swift glance at Chase. “Maybe being out on the ice for so long snapped his mind. I think it would have snapped mine.”
“How could we tell?” Chase murmured laconically. He leaned forward, seeing the cracked lips moving, straining to hear what he said. It was a word, all right. Sounded like Stan-or-Nick.
“So,” Nick pondered, “it’s either Stan or me, is it?” He enunciated very slowly and carefully, “We do not understand. Do you speak English? English—yes?”
“English,” the man said distinctly. Nick brightened. Then the man said, “Nyet,” and Nick’s face fell.
“Try him with French,” Chase suggested.
“I don’t speak French, what about you?”
“Enough to ask the way to the Eiffel Tower and not understand a word of the reply.” Chase became thoughtful, his dark eyes narrowing in his angular tanned face. “If he is Russian, which he sounds to be, he’s either a scientist or with the military.”
“Or he might have been prospecting for gold,” said Nick glibly. “You don’t have much sympathy for a sick man.”
“Sorry. Next time I’ll bring him some grapes and a Barbara Cartland novel.”
Chase came forward and gently took hold of the man’s weathered right hand. “Remind me to send for you when I’m on my deathbed,” he said, examining the small callous on the side of the middle finger, the kind caused by holding a pen. That could mean he was a scientist with a lot of desk work, writing up copious research notes. Was he a defector? Were the Russians out looking for him? Hell of a place to choose, making the break alone across two thousand miles of polar ice. Easier, and less of a risk, to pole-vault the Berlin Wall.
Chase was more intrigued than ever. He was about to lay the hand down when it tightened on his in a surprisingly strong grip and the cracked lips blurted out a torrent of words. The incomprehensible babble went on until it trailed off, leaving him choking for breath. Again Chase caught the word or phrase sounding like Stan-or-Nick. It was frustrating. The Russian was obviously desperate to communicate. His slitted eyes were glazed, staring blankly upward at the plywood ceiling, yet he spoke with force and conviction, desperation even: a man with an urgent message.
“Let’s try him with a pad and pencil.”
“Why, can you read Russian?”
“There must be a Russian dictionary or phrase book here somewhere,” Chase said. He found a ball-point pen on the orderly’s night table and pressed it into the man’s fingers. “At least it’ll give us the gist of what he’s trying to say.”
Nick tore a leaf out of a small black notebook, affixed it to the clipboard holding the temperature chart, and supported the clipboard at a convenient angle while Chase guided the Russian’s hand. The man held the pen as though it were an alien artifact; then he seemed to realize what was required of him. His eyes were unfocused, head held stiffly, and the pen jerked and slithered across the paper. For all his babbling he wrote only a single line before his hand fell against