grinned. "It won't be that bad. Ops should only be bitched for a day or two at the most."
"I know, Ian, but just remember who'll be waiting for us on the ship. Dear old Count-the-Pennies Trowbridge will be certain I deliberately brewed up a storm during extraction just to put him over budget."
There was a shout from somewhere outside the lab building, muffled by the thickly insulated walls. Boots pounded in the snow lock entryway, the inner door crashed open, and Stefan Kropodkin pushed through into the laboratory, crumbs of compacted snow spraying off his Arctic gear. "Did Doctor Hasegawa and Professor Gupta get in?" he gasped, tearing back the hood of his parka.
Creston straightened from the edge of the worktable, setting his pipe back into the retort ashtray. "No, they haven't. What's wrong?"
The Slovakian gulped air. "I don't know. They've disappeared."
Creston frowned, "What do you mean, disappeared?"
"I don't know! They're just gone! We were on the south beach, about three kilometers out. Professor Gupta wanted a last look at the ice buildup rates along the shore, and we were assisting him. The professor told me to photograph some of the formations, and he and Dr. Hasegawa went on ahead, around the point. I lost sight of them." Kropodkin took another shuddering breath. "When I followed after them, they were gone."
"Damn it! If I've told Adaran once I've told him a hundred times. Keep your group together! Did they have a two-way?"
Kropodkin nodded. "The professor had a radio."
Creston looked to Rutherford. "Did you hear anything on the local channel?"
The Englishman shook his head.
"Then get on the set. Call them."
"Right-oh!" The Englishman disappeared through the door of the radio shack.
Kropodkin sank down on a stool, dragging off his heavy overmittens and gloves. Kayla Brown anxiously passed him a bottle of water. "I went on for about another kilometer," he continued after taking a drink. "I called for them but there was no answer. No sign. I began to worry and I hurried back here. I thought maybe they had gotten past me somehow."
"They must have gone inland or out onto the shore drift for some reason." Creston scowled.
"There's no answer on the local channel, Doc!" Rutherford yelled from the radio room.
Kropodkin looked from Dr. Creston to Kayla, a mix of concern and fear crossing his features. "There was one other thing, beyond where they disappeared. A half-eaten seal on the beach. A polar bear kill. Fresh."
"Are you sure it was a seal?" Kayla asked, a tremor in her voice.
He nodded. "This time."
"Steady on, everyone. Likely we're all making a fuss over nothing," Creston said crisply. "Still, it's coming on dark soon. Ian, you bring the other portable transceiver, and I'll get the medical kit. We'll take one of the hand sleds, a tent, and a survival pack with us. Kayla, I want you to stand by the radio in case we have to tell the Haley we have a problem."
"But..." The girl caught herself. This was no time to make a fuss. "Yes, sir."
Kropodkin pulled his gloves on once more. "I will get the shotgun from the bunkhouse."
Chapter Twenty
The USS Alex Haley
Jon Smith stared up drowsily at the springs of the overhead bunk, the lilting folk rock of Al Stewart's "Sand in Your Shoes" flowing from the iPOD's earphones. With tomorrow's mission launch looming, sleep had been hard to come by. Now, finally, after an hour of assiduous courting, it was almost within reach.
The urgent knock at the cabin door snapped him back to full wakefulness. He sat up, tearing off the headset. "Yes?"
Valentina Metrace's voice issued through the glowing louvers in the door. "We've trouble on Wednesday Island, Jon. It looks serious."
He rolled out of the bunk and hit the light switch. "Right. We're coming."
Smyslov had already swung down from the upper birth and was hastily dressing. Smith pulled on a set of cold-weather BDUs and his boots, and in a few moments the two men were climbing the ladder to the radio room.
Apparently the mission launch wasn't going to wait for tomorrow.
Beyond the rumble and susurrus of the ship's routine internal white noise, an intermittent rasping and squealing reverberated through the Haley's frames as chunks of growler ice brushed past the hull. There was also an occasional jolting shudder beyond the beat of the propellers as the cutter's bow sheered into a thin pan of frozen seawater-sounds and sensations that had been occurring with growing frequency.
For the past three days the Alex Haley had been chewing her way deeper