Love in the Artic

CHAPTER ONE

A hard November sun, now dying quickly, reflected its weak rays through an occasional gray fog bank. The big motors of the C-54 droned evenly. For several minutes now the plane had been gradually losing altitude, boring down through the overcast, bouncing now and then as it slid across some rough air.

Steve Cannon leaned toward the window and pressed his face up against the cold, round glass. Far below, the dark blue spots of the North Atlantic appeared frequently through scattered holes in the white blanket of cotton. The water down there looked deep and formidable and deadly. He sighted a small fishing boat which was plunging recklessly through the white waves. He wondered, idly, if the fishermen had had any luck. Then he shivered a little and sat back.

He was tired, very tired. His eyes were bloodshot—though perhaps some of that had been from too much drinking—and there was a dark growth of beard on his tanned face. He had a strong face, a face with clean lines, the kind of face that ought to show up at Miami Beach in the winter and New York in the summer. His tie was loosened and his vest was unbuttoned. There were a couple of coffee stains on the front of his white shirt and his gray suit looked like he had slept in it. As a matter of fact, he had slept in it. He had been in the air, off and on, almost sixteen hours.

Steve closed his eyes, feeling the motion of the plane, trying to think of that last day in New York. He couldn’t remember having gotten on the plane the second time. The first time he’d been all right, just a couple of drinks in the bar at Idlewild while he’d been waiting for the flight to be announced. Then the loudspeaker had stated that the transport was ready to load and the little Englishman from the New York office, who was in charge of the group, had started running around, screaming at everybody to go out and get on the plane. They’d gone out and climbed on, laughing back at him as the big door closed, and then the plane had taxied out over the long runway. At the end of the strip the pilot had turned the big ship around, heading it down-field. The C-54’s horn had sounded a couple of times as the pilot had poured the power to the four thundering engines. A few minutes later they’d returned to the terminal. The Englishman had got on board and gone up front to talk to the crew. There had been a look of complete disgust on his face as he came back through the aisle, telling them that they’d be delayed several hours while an engine was being changed. That had done it for Steve. He’d gone back in the bar—he remembered doing that. He also remembered thinking about Janey, and a couple of other things, and he supposed that he’d got stiffer than a green oak plank in the sun. He wondered, now, how he’d gotten on the plane the second time, why he hadn’t been bumped from the flight for being drunk. He decided that this Keflazik deal must be a pretty lousy job, that the company needed men very badly.

What was it the personnel man back in New York had said? Steve grinned. The little guy with the wavy red hair had tried to make it sound rough up at the airport, like going to Keflazik was only slightly better than jumping off the end of the world in the dark. Steve grinned again. The personnel man had said that at Keflazik you sat over a log, washed in a pan of lukewarm water—and slept alone.

The stewardess came slowly down the aisle, bending over each passenger, rousing them, if they were asleep, telling each one to fasten the safety belt. Steve watched the stewardess disinterestedly. She was a small blonde thing with an upturned nose and a painted-on smile on her lips. Everytime she bent over a passenger she almost lost her right breast. Steve examined her with more interest.

Please fasten your safety belt, she told Steve. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.

Steve got a good close look at her right breast.

Okay, he said.

Her hips swayed on past him and he heard her talking to the ex-prizefighter and the undertaker who occupied the seats directly behind him. The prizefighter and the undertaker had been arguing for hours, their voices a dull rumble over the constant throb of the engines.

I could go for that stewardess, the prizefighter said. She’s got class.

And a couple of other things, too, the undertaker said, later.

That’s what I mean.

These flying waitresses are always looking for something, the undertaker said. We haven’t got it, chum.

I can think, can’t I?

It’s one way to waste time, the undertaker said.

Steve fastened his safety belt and glanced around the plane. It was a rather large plane—much too large for the modest requirements of the nine passengers on board. Only the government could afford to run excursions like this one.

The dark-haired dream in the tight-fitting sweater who was sitting far to the rear of the plane gave Steve a big smile. During the stop at Westover she had told him that her name was Gloria, that she had been hired as a cashier for the Keflazik Hotel and that she was unmarried. Steve had wondered what she’d done with the little gold wedding band which she’d been wearing when she’d got on the plane at Idlewild. He hadn’t bothered asking her about it.

Across the aisle from Steve sat a rather thin, bald-headed individual who had introduced himself, during the initial wait at Idlewild, as Barney Golden, former banker but currently an accountant. He’d told Steve that he’d worked as a teller and later as a loan clerk for the National City Trust Company. During the stop at Westover, Golden had insisted upon giving Steve the second installment of his personal affairs. He’d said that his wife was dead, his son was in the army, his daughter was married to some guy who worked for Metropolitan Life, and that he’d chucked the banking job for the chance to see a little bit of the world and get paid for his trouble while he was doing it. Later, at Stephensville Air Base, in Newfoundland, Mr. Golden had become involved in some high finance with the girl who worked behind the soda fountain and he’d ended up getting short-changed. He’d started a hell of a row and got into arguments with almost everybody in the place. He’d had a sour look on his face ever since that time; the girl had argued him out of it.

The middle-aged woman who clung to her seat about half-way down the aisle gave a sudden start and her face turned white as the big ship settled and then rose sharply in a changing air current. Steve doubted if the woman had said one word to anyone since getting on the plane at Idlewild. During most of the trip she wouldn’t have been able to do much talking if she’d wanted to. She’d been too busy being very sick.

Far toward the front of the plane sat a young, stern-faced man wearing a black tie, a homburg and an important look on his unsmiling face. At first, when Steve had learned that there was an undertaker on board, he’d thought him to be this serious-looking person. Later, however, Steve had been told that the undertaker was the wisecracker wearing the bright green tie and the dark red nose, and that the young man was a government courier.

Steve yawned and stretched, sliding down in the seat as far as the safety belt would permit. The plane jolted again, drifting sharply to the left; the stewardess went by, swinging her can in all directions. She went down past the large crates that were piled forward of the cabin and disappeared through a little door that entered into the crew quarters. Presently the NO SMOKING light came in, shining brightly above the lashed-down crates of eggs, lettuce, bananas and celery that were being air-expressed to Keflazik Airport.

They tell me that this Keflazik is a Christ-awful place, the prizefighter said to the undertaker.

Yeah, the undertaker said. They say the island’s just a pile of rocks. They say there isn’t any women up there. That sure is a hell of a note.

Plenty of women, the prizefighter said. Like I’ve been telling you, I talked with a guy who was up there with the army. He told me there’s lots of women up there. Nice ones.

Not where we’re going, the undertaker said.

Well, so all right. Then we go to the women.

Sometimes I think I’m not too bright, the undertaker said. Getting on this God-damned plane and going up to live in a snowbank with the seals sort of proves it.

It sure does, the prizefighter agreed. I wish to God I knew something about cooking. I hired out as a cook.

Don’t worry about it.

I’m not, the prizefighter said. I’m just telling you how it is with me.

You’ve told me a dozen times already.

The two men lapsed into silence and Steve started to drowse off again. He felt a big hand on his shoulder.

Hey, bud!

Steve sat up and turned around. He looked into the prizefighter’s dull blue eyes, at a nose that had been broken several times, at a mouthful of yellow teeth. A strong smell of whiskey hung around him.

What’s up? Steve wanted to know.

You hear anything about this Keflazik place? the prizefighter asked.

No.

I mean, you hear about any women being around up there?

Steve looked past the two men, saw Gloria sitting back there, her sweater just as tight as ever.

Sure, Steve said. There’s women up there.

You see? the prizefighter demanded of the undertaker. You figured I didn’t know what I was talking about.

What kind of a job have you got at Keflazik? the undertaker asked Steve.

Guard.

Guarding what?

It beats hell out of me, Steve said.

Well, for Christ sake! The undertaker glanced at his companion. He don’t even know what he’s going to guard.

Do you know who you’re going to bury? Steve inquired.

Yeah, the undertaker said, biting on a broken thumb nail. Dead people.

The plane lurched again and the propellers shuddered and grasped at the uneven air. Steve swung around and glanced out of the window. Only an occasional whisp of fog trailed beneath the plane now, but the water below was cast in long, dark shadows of an Arctic twilight. In the distance he could see the white, uneven line of water crashing against a rock-bound shore. Beyond that point a heavy rain mist shielded the distant ground from view. What he saw looked barren, hard, cold.

The stewardess came back through the plane again. This time she was handing out small printed forms.

Fill this out and keep it in your possession, she told Steve. You’ll need it for customs when we land.

He could smell her perfume and the nearness of her. He noticed that she had adjusted her blouse.

Okay, he said.

He took a rather expensive pen from his pocket, made a flat surface across his knees with a Life magazine. First, he printed his name on the form: Steve G. Cannon. The G stood for Gerald. Janey used to call him Gerald whenever she got mad at him. Janey used to call him Gerald almost all the time. He wished that he could forget about her. He hesitated for a moment over the small square where it asked his home address. He couldn’t remember the name of the hotel where he’d stayed, so he just printed New York City. There was quite a large section devoted to Marital Status. He checked the block indicating that he was single, just as he had done on his employment application. He felt that it was right, that he was free and single, even though the law and Janey’s marriage certificate would have said he lied. He was pretty sure that no man could be married to a bitch like Janey. He felt the sweat gathering on his forehead and under his armpits. He shouldn’t feel anything, one way or the other. It didn’t make sense. It was just the end of something. Or, at least, it should be the end.

Steve didn’t have any difficulty answering the question as to how much American currency he had in his possession. He didn’t have to go through his pockets and count his money. A guy, he figured, who had only ten bucks in his wallet always knows how much he’s got.

He signed his name in a long scrawl at the bottom of the form, just as he’d been in the habit of signing the lumber orders he’d dug up for Tobin & Company. He’d sold lumber for them all over the states, not by the thousand feet, like a lot of salesmen, but by the carload. It had been a good life. He’d been well paid. He’d had a lot of fun. It hadn’t been worth a damn.

As he looked out of the window again he could see the lights along the airport runways, shining in the darkness like green and red and white candy canes, stretching like endless fence rows into the mountain of mist and fog.

I wonder why they want to know how much money we’ve got? the undertaker asked no one in particular.

So you can’t get mixed up in any black market business, the prizefighter said.

Well, if I had any money I wouldn’t be up here. That’s the truth, by God.

Steve glanced around and grinned at the short man with the red nose.

Whoever heard of an undertaker not having any money? Steve asked.

Yeah, the prizefighter said. They always got dough.

The undertaker scowled and ran thick fingers through an uncombed thatch of black hair.

Not where I come from, he said. You make a buck on one job, and on the next guy you don’t even get enough out of it to pay for spading up the ground.

The plane swung wide of the field, the pilot striking a pattern before making a final approach to the long runway.

Where do you come from? the prizefighter asked Steve.

New York.

Sure. But before that?

Scranton, Steve said; it seemed like such a long time ago.

Scranton, Pennsylvania?

Well, not since I got out of high school.

Scranton used to be quite a place, the prizefighter said.

Low prices, the undertaker agreed. And good women.

All four engines of the C-54 roared into sudden, deafening life.

It was a funny thing, Steve thought, that when men were together they talked about three things: where they had been, where they wanted to go, and what they were going to do after they got there. Always they brought in the women. The fat women and the skinny women; the women who had big breasts and the women who had small breasts, or none at all; the women who were passionate and the women who were cold; the women who liked it straight and the women who liked it different; the women who did it for a living and the women who did it for free. It was a a peculiar thing. It was a hell of a thing. It was a man’s world with the women holding a first mortgage on the minds of all men.

Steve felt the gentle downward motion of the transport. The lights along the side of the runway ripped past in a slashing ribbon of mixed colors. Without warning the huge tires squealed in sharp protest at the sudden contact with the macadam runway. The big ship bounced a little and then settled gracefully to the ground.

For Steve Cannon this was the end—or the beginning—of a runaway trail. It seemed strange to think of it like that, but that’s the way it was. He glanced around the plane. He wondered how many of the other passengers were running away from something. He could, at the moment, think of no other valid reason why anyone in his right mind would decide to come to Keflazik. Surely, the attraction did not lie in the rate of pay which the company offered; compared to most overseas jobs, the pay was extremely low. And the personnel man back in New York had not minced words when describing living conditions at the airport. As far as Steve knew the island consisted of a place to live, a place to eat, and a place to work. Perhaps, if he were lucky, it would also be a place where he could forget some of the things that weren’t worth remembering.

He speculated about what it was like, just at that moment, back on the little street in New Hyde Park. Come to think of it, New Hyde Park had been a pretty good place in which to live. That is, it had been pretty good until that night he’d found out about Janey and the young major from over at Governor’s Island. Of course he’d been hurt and sore and he’d yelled at her, and she’d yelled right back at him. She’d asked him what the hell he expected, being on the road four or five weeks at a time, just making a lot of money and being so damned tired when he got home from a trip that all he ever wanted to do was sleep. And Janey had been right—not about going with the major, but about the sleeping part and all that. The fact that she’d been partly right had made Steve even madder, put him in the stupid position of being on the defensive. That first battle had lasted about a week. At the end of that time Steve had asked old Dodson to take him in off the road and let him work in the home office in New York. After that he’d had some time with Janey and they had taken in some new plays, golf on Sunday, plus the first two weeks of August at The Pines up in Eldred, New York. It hadn’t worked. It hadn’t been any good. The major had kept calling Janey up every day or so and when he didn’t call her she’d call him. The major had a staff car and sometimes during the day he’d drive out to see Janey and the car would be parked out in Steve’s driveway for hours. One day the car fell apart right there in the driveway and when Steve got home that night a wrecker was just dragging it away. Steve had felt like slapping Janey around that night. But he hadn’t. He’d hardly said a word to her. He’d tried not to listen to her cry. He’d just packed his things and left as quickly as possible.

And he’d kept right on going.

The plane moved slowly along the runway, its wing lights flashing in the darkness. The stewardess came forward and helped the woman across the aisle unbuckle her safety belt.

I wonder if I’m going to be busy up here, the undertaker said.

This guy and his corpses! the prizefighter groaned. Stop looking at me when you speak of the dead.

Do you suppose they bury them up here, or send them home?

Oh, for Christ sake! the prizefighter said.

Well—it’s important.

What happens if the undertaker dies? Steve asked.

The prizefighter nudged the man beside him and guffawed.

Yeah, the undertaker acknowledged seriously. Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing?

I’m glad we’re here, the ex-banker announced. He straightened his tie and patted his wrinkled collar into place. He looked directly at Steve. Do you suppose they’ll put us right to work?

Maybe they’ll be considerate enough to wait until morning, Steve replied, drily.

You’re going to be a guard, aren’t you?

So I’m told.

That’s pretty important work. They might put you to work as soon as you walk off the plane.

Forget it.

I know what I’m talking about, the ex-banker said. This is a big thing up here. Mighty big. I read where the Russians would like to have this base.

What don’t the Russians want? Steve inquired.

Well, this is a very important airfield, the other went on doggedly.

Has anybody got a light? Gloria asked from the rear of the plane. I must have left my lighter in the little girls’ room back in Stephensville.

No smoking, the stewardess said.

The sign up there doesn’t say so.

I’m reading you what the sign says, the stewardess told her, reaching inside her blouse and yanking a strap into