week's leave. And because I had arranged to pick them up there shortly after that time."
"Did Poulson or any of his friends recognize the voices?"
"If they had, I'd have the owners behind bars by this time. Their collars were up to their eyes. Of course their voices would have been muffled. You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Dermott."
"Mr. Dermott is a trained interrogator," Brady said cheerfully. "Trained him myself, as a matter of fact. What happened after that?"
"Poulson and his men were marched across to the food store and locked in there. We keep it locked because of bears. Unless bears are near starving, they aren't very partial to human beings, but they're partial indeed to all human goodies."
"Thank you, Mr. Bronowski. One last question. Did Poulson or his men hear the fatal shots?"
"No. Both the men Poulson saw were carrying silenced guns. That's the great advantage of those modern educational pictures, Mr. Dermott."
There was a pause in the questioning. Brady said, "Because I am an acute observer of character, George, I can tell something's eating you. What's on your mind?"
"It's only a thought. I'm wondering if the murderers are employees of the trans-Alaska pipeline."
The silence was brief but marked. Then Bronowski said, "This beats everything. I speak as Dr. Watson, you understand. I know that Sherlock Holmes could solve a crime without leaving his armchair, but I never knew of any cop or security man who could come up with the answer without at least visiting the scene of the crime."
Dermott said mildly, "I'm not claiming to have solved anything. I'm just putting forward a possibility."
Brady said, "What makes you even think that?"
"In the first place, you pipeline people aren't just the biggest employer of labor around here... you're the only one. Where the hell else could the killers have come from? What else could they have been? Lonely trappers or prospectors on the North Slope or the Brooks Range in the depth of winter? They!d freeze to death the first day out. They wouldn't be prospectors, because the tundra is frozen solid, and beneath that there's two thousand feet of solid permafrost. As for trappers, they'd be not only cold and lonely, but very hungry, indeed, because they wouldn't find any form of food north of Brooks Range until the late spring comes."
Brady grunted. "What you're saying in effect is that the pipeline is the sole means of life-support in those parts."
"It's a fact. Had this happened at Pump Station Seven or Eight, circumstances would have been quite different -- those stations are only a hop, skip and jump from Fairbanks by car. But you don't take a car over the Brooks Range in the heart of winter. And you don't backpack over the Range at this time of year, unless you're bent on quick suicide. So the question remains, how did they get there and away again?"
"Helicopter," Bronowski said. "Remember I said I thought I saw ski marks? Tim -- Tim Houston -- saw the marks too, although he was less sure. The others were frankly skeptical, but admitted the possibility. But I've been flying helicopters for as long as I can remember." Bronowski shook his head in exasperation. "God's sake, how else could they have got in and out?"
"I thought," Mackenzie said, "that those pump stations had limited-range radarscopes."
"They do." Bronowski shrugged. "But snow plays funny tricks on radar. Also, they may not have been looking, or maybe they had the set switched off, not expecting company in such bad weather."
Dermott said, "They were expecting you, surely."
"Not for another hour or so. We'd had deteriorating weather at Number Five, so we left ahead of schedule. Another thing -- even if they had picked up an incoming helicopter, they'd automatically have assumed it was one of ours and would have had no reason to be suspicious."
"Be that as it may," said Dermott, "I'm convinced. It was an inside job. The killers are pipeline employees. The note announcing their intention of causing a
Bruce Alexander
Barbara Monajem
Chris Grabenstein
Brooksley Borne
Erika Wilde
S. K. Ervin
Adele Clee
Stuart M. Kaminsky
Gerald A Browne
Writing