towards him. It hit the ice, bounced, ricocheted. A rock. The realization flashed through Beaumont's mind that Tillotson no longer had a gun.
The aim was astonishingly good - or damned lucky. The rock ricocheted off the ice, flew towards Beaumont's right leg. He jumped sideways, the rock missed him, then he was off-balance, falling, sliding down the glacier like a toboggan, rushing towards the icefall brink.
The carbine was gone, slithering away under its own momentum, preceding him over the icefall brink as Beau mont tobogganning on his stomach, desperately tried to halt the slide, to grab for any projection, to ram his foot in a gully. And all the time as the bitter air hit his face and the glacier whipped past under him he was expecting to halt, to go down instead of forward, to drop inside a crevasse. The slide went on, he was shooting over the ice down a smooth slope of polished surface tilted at an angle of thirty degrees. The parka saved his body from the friction and the grazing, but he was still plunging downwards at increasing speed. His gloves hammered at the ice, the toes of his shoes pressed in hard, but he couldn't stop the diabolical momentum.
The brink of the icefall, a hard line with nothing beyond it - nothing but a sheer drop of hundreds of feet - rushed towards him, and he still couldn't slow down, let alone stop. He was in a perfect position to swallow-dive over the abyss. He rammed his forearms down hard, reached the brink, was going over. Endless space, depth, yawned below him and something spiky. His left arm felt the boulder, a rock em bedded in the glacier.
It was pure reflex - his arm crooked, got a hold on the rock. The brief anchor point merely served as a fulcrum to shoot him over the drop. His prone body swivelled to the left, went over the brink. His left hand felt a projection on the rock, his gloved fingers closed, held on. The weight of his body, the momentum, nearly tore his arm off, or so it felt. Then he was still, hanging over the drop, held by only one hand, one curved arm, his body suspended in space.
Below he caught a brief glimpse of nothing, of the sheer ice cliff going down and down, at the bottom the splay of the glacier, huge spiked ice pinnacles. He made himself look up, concentrated his remaining energy on holding on, on levering himself back up over the brink. He wrapped his right arm round the boulder, felt his exploring fingers con tact his other hand. He clamped one hand over the other. Only then did he look up the glacier past the boulder. Tillotson was coming down the glacier.
It was terribly silent - except for the crunch of spiked boots driving into the ice. Beaumont's face twisted: Tillotson was wearing crampon boots, which made his descent much safer. Where the devil had he got hold of them? He must have had the boots ready in the jeep, must have planned his departure from Thule even before the Boeing 707 had landed. And it was going to take the American less than half a minute to reach him. Too late to try and clamber back over the edge. Beaumont was having trouble with his vision now - the oncoming Tillotson looked like two men. Beaumont blinked. The vision dissolved into one man, a man with a knife in his right hand. Tillotson was very close when Beaumont's head flopped, when his right hand lost its grip.
Beaumont's right arm went limp, flopped out of sight behind the boulder. The strain on his left arm was appalling, almost unbearable, and under the parka his clothes were clammy with sweat. Tillotson paused about three feet from the boulder, decided he couldn't reach with the knife. Taking two more careful paces, he lowered himself to a sitting position behind the rock, raised his right foot, aimed the crampon spikes at the Englishman's left hand. The spikes were half an inch long, rimmed with ice from the glacier. He lunged to spike the gloved hand.
As he drove the boot down hard Beaumont's right hand whipped up over the boulder, locked round Tillotson's
The aim was astonishingly good - or damned lucky. The rock ricocheted off the ice, flew towards Beaumont's right leg. He jumped sideways, the rock missed him, then he was off-balance, falling, sliding down the glacier like a toboggan, rushing towards the icefall brink.
The carbine was gone, slithering away under its own momentum, preceding him over the icefall brink as Beau mont tobogganning on his stomach, desperately tried to halt the slide, to grab for any projection, to ram his foot in a gully. And all the time as the bitter air hit his face and the glacier whipped past under him he was expecting to halt, to go down instead of forward, to drop inside a crevasse. The slide went on, he was shooting over the ice down a smooth slope of polished surface tilted at an angle of thirty degrees. The parka saved his body from the friction and the grazing, but he was still plunging downwards at increasing speed. His gloves hammered at the ice, the toes of his shoes pressed in hard, but he couldn't stop the diabolical momentum.
The brink of the icefall, a hard line with nothing beyond it - nothing but a sheer drop of hundreds of feet - rushed towards him, and he still couldn't slow down, let alone stop. He was in a perfect position to swallow-dive over the abyss. He rammed his forearms down hard, reached the brink, was going over. Endless space, depth, yawned below him and something spiky. His left arm felt the boulder, a rock em bedded in the glacier.
It was pure reflex - his arm crooked, got a hold on the rock. The brief anchor point merely served as a fulcrum to shoot him over the drop. His prone body swivelled to the left, went over the brink. His left hand felt a projection on the rock, his gloved fingers closed, held on. The weight of his body, the momentum, nearly tore his arm off, or so it felt. Then he was still, hanging over the drop, held by only one hand, one curved arm, his body suspended in space.
Below he caught a brief glimpse of nothing, of the sheer ice cliff going down and down, at the bottom the splay of the glacier, huge spiked ice pinnacles. He made himself look up, concentrated his remaining energy on holding on, on levering himself back up over the brink. He wrapped his right arm round the boulder, felt his exploring fingers con tact his other hand. He clamped one hand over the other. Only then did he look up the glacier past the boulder. Tillotson was coming down the glacier.
It was terribly silent - except for the crunch of spiked boots driving into the ice. Beaumont's face twisted: Tillotson was wearing crampon boots, which made his descent much safer. Where the devil had he got hold of them? He must have had the boots ready in the jeep, must have planned his departure from Thule even before the Boeing 707 had landed. And it was going to take the American less than half a minute to reach him. Too late to try and clamber back over the edge. Beaumont was having trouble with his vision now - the oncoming Tillotson looked like two men. Beaumont blinked. The vision dissolved into one man, a man with a knife in his right hand. Tillotson was very close when Beaumont's head flopped, when his right hand lost its grip.
Beaumont's right arm went limp, flopped out of sight behind the boulder. The strain on his left arm was appalling, almost unbearable, and under the parka his clothes were clammy with sweat. Tillotson paused about three feet from the boulder, decided he couldn't reach with the knife. Taking two more careful paces, he lowered himself to a sitting position behind the rock, raised his right foot, aimed the crampon spikes at the Englishman's left hand. The spikes were half an inch long, rimmed with ice from the glacier. He lunged to spike the gloved hand.
As he drove the boot down hard Beaumont's right hand whipped up over the boulder, locked round Tillotson's
Similar Books
