alistairmaclean.nightwithoutend-第4部分

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e　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　foothold　was　quite　impossible：　besides；　it　was　doubtful　whether　I　could　have　smashed　in　a　window　anyway。　Like　the　door；　the　windows　were　designed　to　withstand　great　pressures。
　
　Stumbling；　slipping；　we　ran　round　the　buried　tip　of　the　wing；　and　clear　in　sight　now　was　the　ice　hummock　that　had　brought　the　big　airliner　to　its　sudden　halt。　About　fifteen　feet　high　and　twenty　wide　at　the　base；　it　lay　in　the　right　angle　formed　by　the　front　of　the　fuselage　and　the　leading　edge　of　the　wing。　But　it　wasn't　the　root　of　the　wing　that　had　absorbed　the　initial　impact；　a　glance　at　the　nose　of　the　aircraft　was　enough　to　show　that。　The　plane　must　have　crashed　into　the　ice…mound　just　to　right　of　centre　of　the　control　cabin：　the　windscreens　were　smashed；　the　fuselage　ripped　open　and　crushed　back　for　six　or　seven　feet。　What　had　happened　to　the　pilot　sitting　on　that　side　at　the　moment　of　the　telescopic　impact　just　didn't　bear　thinking　about：　but　at　least　we　had　found　our　way　in。
　
　I　set　the　searchlight　so　that　its　beam　illuminated　the　wrecked　control　cabin；　gauged　the　distance　to　the　lower　sill　of　the　windscreen…it　must　have　been　fully　nine　feet…and　jumped。　My　gloved　hands　hooked　on　firmly　but　slipped　almost　at　once　on　the　ice…rimed　surface。　I　grabbed　for　a　purchase　grip　on　one　of　the　windscreen　pillars；　felt　my　fingers　striking　against　solid　glass　on　both　sides…the　windscreen　hadn't　been　as　pletely　shattered　as　I　had　imagined…and　was　on　the　point　of　losing　my　hold　altogether　when　Jackstraw　moved　forward　swiftly　and　took　my　weight。
　
　With　my　knees　on　his　shoulders　and　a　fire　axe　in　my　hand　it　took　me　no　more　than　two　minutes　to　smash　away　the　glass　that　clung　to　the　pillars　and　the　upper　and　lower　edges。　I　hadn't　realised　that　aircraft　glass…toughened　perspex…could　be　so　tough；　nor；　when　it　came　to　clambering　through　into　the　control　cabin　in　my　bulky　furs；　that　windscreens　could　be　so　narrow。
　
　I　landed　on　top　of　a　dead　man。　Even　in　the　darkness　I　knew　he　was　dead。　I　fumbled　under　my　parka；　brought　out　the　torch；　switched　it　on　for　a　couple　of　seconds；　then　put　it　out。　It　was　the　co…pilot；　the　man　who　had　taken　the　full　impact　of　the　crash。　He　was　pinned；　crushed　between　his　seat　and　the　twisted；　fractured　wreckage　of　what　had　been　control　columns；　levers　and　dashboard　instruments：　not　since　I　had　once　been　called　out　to　the　scene　of　a　head…on　collision　between　a　racing　motor…cyclist　and　a　heavy　truck　had　I　seen　such　dreadful　injuries　on　any　man。　Whatever　any　of　the　survivors；　the　shocked　and　injured　survivors　in　the　plane；　must　see；　it　mustn't　be　this。　It　was　ghastly　beyond　description。
　
　I　turned　and　leaned　out　the　windscreen。　Jackstraw　was　directly　below；　cupped　gloved　hands　shielding　his　eyes　against　the　flying　ice　spicules　as　he　stared　upwards。
　
　〃Bring　a　blanket；〃　I　shouted。　〃Better；　bring　a　full　gunny　sack。
　
　And　the　morphia　kit。　Then　e　up　yourself。〃
　
　He　was　back　in　twenty　seconds。　I　caught　both　sack　and　morphia　box；　placed　them　on　the　twisted　cabin　floor　behind　me；　then　reached　out　a　hand　to　help　Jackstraw；　but　it　wasn't　necessary。　Athleticism　wasn't　the　forte　of　the　short　arid　stocky　Greenlanders；　but　Jackstraw　was　the　fittest　and　most　agile　man　I　had　ever　met。　He　sprang；　caught　the　lower　sill　of　the　left　windscreen　in　his　left　hand；　the　central　pillar　in　the　other　and　swung　legs　and　body　through　the　centre　screen　as　if　he　had　been　doing　this　sort　of　thing　all　his　life。
　
　I　gave　him　my　torch　to　hold；　rummaged　in　the　gunny　sack　and　dragged　out　a　blanket。　I　spread　it　over　the　dead　co…pilot；　tucking　the　corners　down　among　twisted　and　broken　ends　of　metal；　so　that　it　shouldn't　blow　free　in　the　icy　wind　that　swirled　and　gusted　through　the　wrecked　control　cabin。
　
　〃Waste　of　a　good　blanket；　I　suppose；〃　I　muttered。　〃But…well；　it　isn't　pretty。〃
　
　〃It　isn't　pretty；〃　Jackstraw　agreed。　His　voice　was　quite　steady；　devoid　of　all　inflection。　〃How　about　this　one？〃
　
　I　looked　across　at　the　left…hand　side　of　the　cabin。　It　was　almost　pletely　undamaged　and　the　chief　pilot；　still　strapped　in　his　se