Ice Station Zebra (24 page)

      "You may not," Swanson said quietly. "Early supper, then twelve hours solid for you and the other eight, Doctor, and those are _my_ doctor's orders. You'll find supper waiting in the wardroom now."
      "Aye-aye, sir." Jolly gave a ghost of a smile and pushed himself groggily to his feet. "That bit about the twelve hours sounds good to me."
      After a minute or two, when he was steady enough on his feet, he left. Swanson said, "What now?"
      "You might inquire around to see who was closest or close to Benson when he slipped climbing over the edge of the bridge. But discreetly. It might do no harm if at the same time you hinted around that maybe Benson had just taken a turn."
      "What are _you_ hinting at?" Swanson asked slowly.
      "Did he fall or was he pushed? That's what I'm hinting at."
      "Did he fall or--" He broke off then went on warily: "Why should anyone want to push Dr. Benson?"
      "Why should anyone want to kill seven--eight, now--men on Drift Ice Station Zebra?"
      "You have a point," Swanson acknowledged quietly. He left.
      Making X-ray films wasn't very much in my line, but apparently it hadn't been very much in Dr. Benson's line, either, for he'd written down, for his own benefit and guidance, a detailed list of instructions for the taking and developing of X-ray films. I wondered how he would have felt if he had known that the first beneficiary of his meticulous thoroughness was to be himself. The two finished negatives I came up with wouldn't have caused any furor in the Royal Photo. graphic Society, but they were enough for my wants.
      By and by, Commander Swanson returned, closing the door behind him. I said, "Ten gets one that you got nothing."
      "You won't die a poor man," he nodded. "Nothing is what it is. So chief torpedoman Patterson tells me, and you know what he's like."
      I knew what he was like. Patterson was the man responsible for all discipline and organization among the enlisted men, and Swanson had said to me that he regarded Patterson, and not himself, as the most indispensable man on the ship.
      "Patterson was the man who reached the bridge immediately before Benson," Swanson said. "He said he heard Benson cry out, swung around and saw him already beginning to topple backward. He didn't recognize who it was at the time, it was too dark and snowy for that. He said he had the impression that Benson had already had one hand and one knee on the bridge coaming when he fell backward."
      "A funny position in which to start falling backward," I said. "Most of his body weight must already have been inboard. And even if he did topple outward, he would surely still have had plenty of time to grab the coaming with both hands."
      "Maybe he did take a turn," Swanson suggested. "And don't forget that the coaming is glass-slippery with its smooth coating of ice."
      "As soon as Benson disappeared, Patterson ran to the side to see what had happened to him?"
      "He did," Swanson said wearily. "And he said there wasn't a person within ten feet of the top of the bridge when Benson fell."
      "And who _was_ ten feet below?"
      "He couldn't tell. Don't forget how black it was out there on the ice cap and that the moment Patterson had dropped into the brightly lit bridge he'd lost whatever night sight he'd built up. Besides, he didn't wait for more than a glance. He was off for a stretcher even before you or Hansen got to Benson. Patterson is not the sort of man who has to be told what to do."
      "So it's a dead end there?"
      "A dead end."
      I nodded, crossed to a cupboard, and brought back the two X-rays, still wet, held in their metal clips. I held them up to the light for Swanson's inspection.
      "Benson?" he asked, and when I nodded, he peered at them more closely and finally said, "That line there--a fracture?"
      "A fracture. And not a hair-line one, either, as you can see. He really caught a wallop."
      "How bad is it? How long before he comes out of this coma-- He _is_ in a coma?"
      "He's all that. How long? If I were a lad fresh out of medical school I'd let you have a pretty confident estimate. If I were a top-flight brain surgeon I'd say anything from half an hour to a year or two, because people who really know what they are talking about are only too aware that we know next to nothing about the brain. Being neither, I'd guess at two or three days--and my guess could be hopelessly wrong. There may be cerebral bleeding. I don't know. I don't think so. Blood pressure, respiration, and temperature show no evidence of organic damage. And now you know as much about it as I do."
      "Your colleagues wouldn't like that." Swanson smiled faintly. "This cheerful confession of ignorance does nothing to enhance the mystique of your profession. How about your other patients--the two men still out in Zebra?"
      "I'll see them after supper. Maybe they'll be well enough to be brought here tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'd like to ask a favor of you. Could you lend me the services of your torpedoman Rawlings? And would you have any objections to his being taken into our confidence?"
      "Rawlings? I don't know why you want him, but why Rawlings? The officers and petty officers aboard this ship are the pick of the U. S. Navy. Why not one of them? Besides, I'm not sure that I like the idea of passing on to an enlisted man secrets denied to my officers."
      "They're strictly non-naval secrets. The question of hierarchy doesn't enter into it. Rawlings is the man I want. He's got a quick mind, quick reflexes, and a dead-pan, give-awaynothing expression that is invaluable in a game like this. Besides, in the event--the unlikely event, I hope--of the killer suspecting that we're on to him, he wouldn't look for any danger from one of your enlisted men because he'd be certain that we wouldn't let them in on it."
      "What do you want him for?"
      "To keep a night guard on Benson here."
      "On Benson?" A fractional narrowing of the eyes that could have been as imagined as real was the only change in Swanson's impassive face. "So you don't think it was an accident, do you?"
      "I don't honestly know. But I'm like you when you carry out a hundred and one different checks, most of which you know to be unnecessary, before you take your ship to sea: I'm taking no chances. If it wasn't an accident, then someone might have an interest in doing a really permanent job next time."
      "But how can Benson represent a danger to anyone?" Swanson argued. "I'll bet anything, Carpenter, that Benson doesn't--or didn't--know a thing that could point a fingerat anyone. If he did, he'd have told me right away. He's like that."
      "Maybe he saw or heard something the significance of which he didn't then realize. Maybe the killer is frightened that if Benson has time enough to think about it, the significance will dawn on him. Or maybe it's all a figment of my overheated imagination: maybe he just fell. But I'd still like to have Rawlings."
      "You'll have him." Swanson rose to his feet and smiled. "I don't want you quoting that Washington directive at me again."
      Two minutes later Rawlings arrived. He was dressed in a light-brown shirt and overalls, obviously his own conception of what constituted the well-dressed submariner's uniform, and for the first time in our acquaintance he didn't smile a greeting. He didn't even glance at Benson on his cot. His face was still and composed, without any expression.
      "You sent for me, sir?" _Sir_, not _Doc_.
      "Take a seat, Rawlings." He sat, and as he did, I noticed the heavy bulge in the twelve-inch thigh pocket on the side of his overall pants. I nodded and said, "What have you got there? Doesn't do much for the cut of your natty suiting, does it?"
      He didn't smile. He said: "I always carry one or two tools around with me. That's what the pocket is for."
      "Let's see this particular tool," I said.
      He hesitated briefly, shrugged and, not without some difficulty, pulled a heavy, gleaming drop-forged steel pipe wrench from the pocket. I hefted it in my hand.
      "I'm surprised at you, Rawlings," I said. "What do you think the average human skull is made of--concrete? One little tap with this thing and you're up on a murder or manslaughter charge." I picked up a roll of bandage. "Ten yards of this wrapped around the business end will automatically reduce the charge to one of assault and battery."
      "I don't know what you're talking about," he said mechanically.
      "I'm talking about the fact that when Commander Swanson, Lieutenant Hansen and I were inside the laboratory this afternoon and you and Murphy were outside, you must have kind of leaned your ear against the door and heard more than was good for you. You know there's something wrong, and though you don't know what, your motto is 'Be prepared.' Hence the cosh. Correct?"
      "Correct."
      "Does Murphy know?"
      "No."
      "I'm a naval-intelligence officer. Washington knows all about me. Want the captain to vouch for me?"
      "Well, no." The first faint signs of a grin. "I heard you pull a gun on the skipper, but you're still walking around loose. You must be in the clear."
      "You heard me threaten the captain and Lieutenant Hansen with a gun. But then you were sent away. You heard nothing after that?"
      "Nothing."
      "Three men have been murdered on Zebra. Two shot, one knifed. Their bodies were burned to conceal traces of the crime. Four others died in the fire. The killer is aboard this ship."
      Rawlings said nothing. His eyes were wide, his face pale and shocked. I told him everything I'd told Swanson and Hansen and emphasized that he was to keep it all to himself. Then I finished, "Dr. Benson here has been seriously hurt. A deliberate attempt, God knows for what reason, may have been made on his life. We don't know. But if it was a deliberate attempt, then it's failed--so far."
      Rawlings had brought himself under control. He said, his voice as empty of expression as his face: "Our little pal might come calling again?"
      "He may. No member of the crew except the captain, the executive officer or I will come here. Anyone else--well, you can start asking him questions when he recovers consciousness."
      "You recommended ten yards of this bandage, Doe?"
      "It should be enough. And only a gentle tap, for God's sake. Above and behind the ear. You might sit behind that curtain there where no one can see you."
      "I'm feeling lonesome tonight," Rawlings murmured. He broke open the bandage, started winding it around the head of the wrench, and glanced at the cartoon-decorated bulkhead beside him. "Even old Yogi Bear ain't no fit companion for me tonight. I hope I have some other company calling."
      I left him there. I felt vaguely sorry for anyone who should come calling, killer or not. I felt, too, that I had taken every possible precaution. But when I left Rawlings there guarding Benson, I did make one little mistake. Just one. I left him guarding the wrong man.
      The second accident of the day happened so quickly, so easily, so inevitably that it might almost have been just that-- an accident.
      At supper that evening I suggested that, with Commander Swanson's permission, I'd have a surgery at nine the next morning; because of enforced neglect, most of the burn wounds were suppurating pretty badly, requiring constant cleaning and changing of coverings. I also thought it about time that an X-ray inspection be made of Zabrinski's broken ankle. Medical supplies in the sick bay were running short: where did Benson keep his main supplies? Swanson told me and detailed Henry, the steward, to show me where it was.
      About ten that night, after I'd returned from seeing the two men out on Zebra, Henry led me through the now deserted control room and down the ladder that led to the inertial-navigation room and the electronics space, which abutted on it. He undid the strong-back clamp on the square, heavy steel hatch in a corner of the electronics room and, with an assist from me--the hatch must have weighed about 150 pounds--swung it up and back until the hatch clicked home on its standing latch.
      Three rungs welded onto the inside of the hatch cover led onto the vertical steel ladder that reached down to the deck below. Henry went down first, snapping on the light as he went, and I followed.
      The medical storage room, though tiny, was equipped on the same superbly lavish scale as was everything else on the Dolphin. Benson, as thoroughly meticulous in this as he had been in his outlining of X-ray procedure, had everything neatly and logically labeled, so that it took me less than three minutes to find everything I wanted. I went up the ladder first, stopped near the top, stretched down, and took the bag of supplies from Henry, swung it up on the deck above, then reached up quickly with my free hand to grab the middle of the three rungs welded on the lower side of the hatch cover to haul myself up onto the deck of the electronics space. But I didn't haul myself up. What happened was that I hauled the hatch cover down. The retaining latch had become disengaged, and the 150-pound deadweight of that massive cover was swinging down on top of me before I could even begin to realize what was happening.
      I fell half sideways, half backward, pulling the hatch cover with me. My head struck against the hatch coaming. Desperately I ducked my head forward--if it had been crushed between the coaming and the falling cover, the two sides of my skull would just about have met in the middle--and tried to snatch my left arm back inside. I was more or less successful with my head--I had it clear of the coaming and was ducking so quickly that the impact of the cover was no more than enough to give me a slight headache afterward-- but my left arm was a different matter altogether. I almost got it clear--but only almost. If my left hand and wrist had been strapped to a steel block and a gorilla had had a go at it with a sledge hammer, the effect couldn't have been more agonizing. For a moment or two I hung there, trapped, dangling by my left wrist; then the weight of my body tore the mangled wrist and hand through the gap and I crashed down to the deck beneath. Then the gorilla seemed to have another go with the sledge hammer, and consciousness went.
      "I won't beat about the bush, old lad," Jolly said. "No point in it with a fellow pill roller. Your wrist is a mess. I had to dig half your watch out of it. The middle and little fingers are broken, the middle in two places. But the permanent danger, I'm afraid, is to the back of your hand. The little- and ring-finger tendons have been sliced."