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That alone doesn't figure. They were in an aircraft flying at a probable patrol speed of two hundred miles an hour. if anything, our chances of spotting something from a hovering helicopter were far higher."
Hunnewell looked thoughtful. He seemed to be weighing what Pitt had said. "I'm not sure what you're hinting at." Then he 13
smiled, suddenly his old cheerful self again. "But I'm getting wise to your siv mind. You must have something up your sleeve-"
"No magic. You said it yourself. by every known law of current and drift, this berg should be floating ninety miles to the southwest."
"True." Hunnewell looked at Pitt with a new respect. "And the conclusion, exactly what do you have in mind?"
"Not what, but who, Doc. Someone who is leading all of us on the proverbial wild-coose chase. Someone who removed the red dye from the iceberg containing the lost ship and spread more of the same over a decoy ninety miles off the track."
"Of course, the iceberg we flew over hours ago.
The same size, configuration and weight, but no red stain."
"That's where we'll find our mystery ship," said Pitt. "Right where you calculated it was supposed to be."
"But who's playing games?" Hunnewell asked, his face set in a contemplative twist. "Obviously it isn't the Russians: they're as confused as we were."
"At the moment it doesn't matter," Pitt said. "The important thing is to bid fond farewell to this floating ice palace and fly off into the blue. Our uninvited guests have arrived." He nodded down the slope of the berg.
"Or perhaps you hadn't noticed?"
And Hunnewell hadn't. But he noticed it now. The first of the landing party from the submarine came piling on the berg, walking cautiously onto the edge of the ice. Within a few seconds, five Pitt and Hunnewell's direction. They were dressed in black-Russian marines-and heavily armed. Even at a hundred yards, Pitt could discern the unmistakable look of men who knew exactly what they were out to do.
Pitt casually climbed aboard the helicopter, turned the ignition switch and pushed the starter. Even before the rotor blades swung into their first revolution, Hunnewell was ensconced in the passenger's seat with his safety belt tightly secured.
Before he closed the door to the cockpit, Pitt leined out, cupped both hands to his mouth and shouted to the advancing Russians, "Enjoy your stay, but don't forget to Pick up your litter."
The officer leading the men from the submarine cocked an ear, then shrugged uncomprehendingly. He was certain that Pitt was hardly likely to shout in Russian for his benefit. As if to signal the occupants of the helicopter of his peaceful intentions, the officer lowered his automatic weapon and waved a salute as Pitt and Hunnewell relinquished possession of the iceberg and rose into the radiant blue sky.
Pitt took his time, keeping the helicopter at a Minimum cruising speed and holding on a northward course for fifteen minutes. Then, after they were out of sight and radar range of the submarine, he swung around in a long circle to the southwest and by eleven fifteen they had found the derelict.
As they bore down on the great ice giant, Pitt and Hunnewell shared a strange sense of emptiness. It wasn't just the end of the long hours of uncertaintythey were already past the time limit set by Commander Koski-it was the eerie appearance of the mystery ship itself.
Neither man had ever seen anything quite like it.
The atmosphere around the berg had a terrifying desolation that belonged not to earth but to some dead and distant planet.
Only the rays of the sun broke the inertness, penetrating the ice and distorting the lines of the ship's hull and superstructure into a constantly changing series of abstract shadows. The sight seemed so unreal that it was difficult for Pitt to accept the visible fact of its existence. As he adjusted the controls and lowered the helicopter to the ice, he half expected the entombed vessel to vanish.
Pitt tried to land on a smooth spot near the berg's edge, but the sloping angle of the ice proved too great; he finally put down directly on top of the derelict. Hunnewell leaped from the helicopter just before the skids kissed the ice, and had already paced the derelict from bow to stern when Pitt joined him.
"Odd," Hunnewell murmured, "most odd. Nothing Protrudes above the surface, not even the masts and radar antenna. Every square inch is sealed solidly under the ice."
Pitt pulled a handkerchief from his flight jacket and blew his nose. Then he sniffed the air, as if testing it.
"Smell anything out of the ordinary, Doc?"
Hunnewell tilted his head back and inhaled slowly.
"There is something of an odor. Too faint though. I can't make it out."
"You don't travel in the right circles," Pitt said, grinning. "If you'd get out of your laboratory more often and learn a bit about life, you'd recognize the distinct aroma of burnt rubbish."
"Where's it coming from?"
Pitt nodded at the derelict under his feet. "Where else but down there."
