"Good boy," Jim said. "Now farther. Kiss the ice."
He levered upward on the tortured arm. The chief bent toward the ice. His beard brushed it. His lips touched it. Jim heard the men of the sea muttering, whispering among themselves. Slowly he eased the big man upward and waited for an admission of defeat.
No admission came. The chief tensed, wary but stubborn.
Jim looked at Kennart. "Tell him I'll break his arm if he doesn't give up! Tell him the fight's all over!"
Kennart said something. The chief growled a reply.
Kennart said, "He doesn't give ground! He says he'll fight even with a broken arm!"
Jim had never met with a situation like that. He maintained the grip, tightening it a little, but never before had anyone dared him to go ahead and break his arm. Jim couldn't do it. So far as he was concerned, the fight was over right now. Did the chief plan to fight to the death anyway?
"Tell him I release him," Jim called to Kennart. "Tell him I claim victory."
"Better not," Kennart warned. "If you let go of him-"
Jim discovered what would happen even before Kennart got the words out. He started to slacken his grip, and the chief began to rise, already swinging around with his free hand to take a swipe at Jim.
"Sorry," Jim said. "I don't want to do this, but some people are stubborn as stone."
He put theory into practice. A gentle nudge and a twist and the chief boomed in pain. Jim had merely dislocated his shoulder, instead of breaking his arm.
Left arm dangling limply, the chief returned to the attack. Perspiration beaded his face now, and his hair was pasted to his forehead. Wild, berserk, he clubbed at Jim, howled at him, begged him in wordless shrieks to hold still and be killed. Jim danced around him, annoyed with the obstinate barbarian for prolonging the fight this way.
The chief lurched suddenly and swung his good arm in a curving arc. Jim leaned toward him, expecting to catch the arm and sending the chief flying once again, but the power of that ponderous arm fooled him. An instant later Jim found himself caught, trapped by the arm, crushed up against the chief's body. He felt his ribs rubbing together. The air rushed from his lungs. Jim gasped for breath, cursing his overconfidence, wondering if he would ever get free. The maddened chief might very well crush him to death before he let go.
Jim strained. He spread his shoulders, struggled with all his might. No use. He was choking, his face going purple, his eyes bulging.
Then he found a way. He bowed his head, slammed it up with all his might into the sea-chief's long chin!
The bearded mans head went shooting back. He began to stumble, and had to let go of Jim, who took every advantage of his regained freedom. Seizing the madly waving arm, Jim ran round, slid the big man across the ice a few feet, then levered him into the air!
He soared high, higher than the last time…
And crashed with booming impact. He landed and went skittering like a doll across the ice, coming to rest only a few feet from his own men.
Jim stood his ground, filling his lungs gratefully with air and trying to recover from that crushing bear hug, which had left him faint and dizzy. The next time, he told himself, he would not be so merciful about dislocating arms when he was in a position to break them.
But there was no next time. Long moments passed, and still the great form lay sprawled on the ice like some whale beached by the tides. None of his men dared approach him. They stood in a tight knot, stunned, bewildered by his downfall.
Finally the big man sat up. He shook his head as though to clear cobwebs from it, and looked down at his dangling arm. He moved it experimentally, winced, looked at Kennart, and muttered something in a low, barely audible voice.
Kennart said to Jim, "He admits defeat. He says you may come as passengers on his ship. But there is a condition." Kennart grinned. "He wishes you to teach him how you fought like that!"
12
THE HORIZON DRAWS NEAR
With Kennart serving as interpreter, the job of getting the sleds aboard the ship moved more smoothly than the New Yorkers expected. Twenty sailors descended from the vessel which rocked gently at anchor as they maneuvered the bulky sleds up and into the hold. The chief, still glowering over his defeat, supervised the maneuver.
Jim called Kennart aside. "Tell him," he said, "that we have a healer among us who can restore his shoulder. Tell him that I hope he will hold no anger at me for his defeat."
Kennart carried the message. The chief grunted a reply, and Kennart said, "Send him your healer. He says he is angry not at you but at himself."
Carl went to the chief, and employed his meager first-aid training to deal with the dislocation. He simply seized the shoulder and firmly forced it back into place, a process that must have been horribly painful, but which drew not a whimper from the patient.
Soon all was in readiness for departure. The sleds and their contents had been loaded, and nothing remained but to climb the ladder and go on board.
Jim realized with a pang of sadness that the time of parting from Kennart had come. The fair-haired man stood alone on the shore, watching quietly. He had traveled with them a week; he had risked his life to guide them, and he had become one of them, for all his difference of background. He had been a friend, and friends were not easily come by in this frigid world.
"I wish you could come with us," Jim said.
"So, too, do I," Kennart replied. "But tasks await me. I have people who depend on me. I can go no farther."
"Is there any way we can thank you?"
Kennart smiled. "Not with gifts, Jim. You are still my guest, and I will take no gift of you. Except perhaps for the secret of hurling a huge man like a toy. Can you tell me how it is done?"
"It takes long training," Jim said with a laugh and a shake of the head. "I could teach you, yes-as fast as you could teach me how to cross the ice in safety."
"I understand," the other said. "Well, then. We come to the parting. I wish you fair voyage. And if ever you pass this way again, I bid you search us out."
"We will do that," Jim promised.
Kennart said good-by to each man in turn, while the seafarers hoisted their anchors. Jim clambered aboard the ship; Carl and Roy followed him. No one remained on shore, now, but Kennart, alone against a field of white.
The ship put out for sea. Jim remained at the rail a long time, staring at the dwindling figure on the shelf of ice. And then, at last, Kennart was lost to sight, and Jim turned away, silently wishing the brave Jersey a safe journey home.
* * *
After a day aboard ship, Jim decided that he very much preferred sledding over thin ice. Every pulse, every heave of the sea translated itself directly into a rolling motion underfoot. The crewmen, raised from childhood to this way of life, moved about with confidence and ease, smirking at the six unhappy landlubbers who clung grimly to support.
The ship was a floating village, Jim soon found. Down below were women and children, busy at tasks of their own. With so many dozens of people crammed aboard the vessel, privacy was unknown; no one had more than a couple of square feet to himself. The six passengers had been installed right on deck, near the stern; cold sea spray washed over them constantly, until they pitched their tents in self-defense.
It was not a comfortable journey. But the New York men had not asked for comfort, merely for a way across the open water. That, they were getting. The vessel slipped speedily through the sea, sailors working in shifts through day and night to make the most of the strong wind out of the west. Time blurred. There was nothing for the passengers to do aboard ship, since they could not speak a word to any of the seafarers, had no duties, and were too seasick most of the time to read or play time-passing games with one another. On, on, endlessly eastward they moved, the sea growing now choppy, now calm. Floating islands of ice drifted past. In places the ice floes were thick and numerous, and it seemed as though they might be approaching the far shore; but then the water cleared again, and nothing but open wa
ter stretched before them.
It developed that the seafarers' chief had been serious about wanting to learn the secrets of Jim's wrestling mastery. On a day of calm sea, he called for a demonstration, indicating by signs that Jim should teach them his art. Jim was amused to see that the chief himself did not come forward to take part in the demonstration. He sent in his stead a brawny young giant who towered half a head over Jim. Jim heard the chief saying something to his men, and it was easy enough to guess what it was: "I wish to watch and see how he does it," the chief was probably declaring, to conceal his unwillingness to have a second humiliation at Jim's hands.
Everyone who could be spared from duty gathered round to watch. Even some of the women peeped up from below decks. Jim's new adversary was no older than Jim, and just as fast on his feet, and twice as strong. But his only idea of wrestling was to lock his arms around his opponent and hug him to death. Again and again, the big fellow charged Jim, only to wind up slamming back-first into the hard deck. Bloody but unbowed, he picked himself up and tried again, and again, and again. He never seemed to catch on. Always, when he charged, there was an arm jutting on that could be caught, and deftly twisted, and used as a lever to send him flying. He didn't seem to understand that Jim was capitalizing on his momentum-that the harder he charged, the harder he was going to get slammed.
The "demonstration" lasted half an hour. Jim displayed his whole repertoire, the arm locks and back locks and flips and twists and parries. By the time the chief finally broke it up, Jim had worked up a hearty sweat but hadn't been hurt at all, and his victim was sullenly nursing an assortment of bruises and bone jars that he'd feel for a week.
Later, Jim saw some of the sailors practicing judo holds on each other. It was a comic sight. They were trying to be agile, trying hard to imitate Jim's use of leverage and momentum, but they just didn't have the knack. Somehow they invariably ended up gripping each other's wrists and swinging round and round in a wild, clumsy, foolish-looking dance.
"No," Jim told them. "You've got to get your body behind it. Like this. Imagine that you're a whip, and you're cracking like a pistol shot…"
Of course, they were unable to understand what he was telling them. He pantomimed it for them, and they smiled and nodded and went at it again, but as before they grabbed wrists and swung violently until it seemed both combatants would go flying off into the sea.
"Don't let it discourage you," Jim told them. "I looked just as silly, at first. It takes years of practice."
While Jim tried in vain to teach the sailors judo, Ted Callison was busy with the radio. He and Jim's father huddled for long hours over the set, trying to pick up London. They made contact, finally, and let the Londoners know that they were still in for a visit. London seemed surprised that the New York party had been able to travel so far in safety. Only two casualties out of eight, in several weeks of journeying, and the hardest part of the trip behind them…
"They're going to send a party out to meet us," Dr. Barnes reported. "We're going to try to make rendezvous with them somewhere on the European ice shelf."
That ice shelf grew daily nearer. There were delays, twice, when schools of dolphins came near the ship, and the seafarers put down boats of harpooners to take the prizes. Jim watched in awe as the sleek creatures sped by, and was equally impressed with the skill of the muscular harpooners. He thought of Chet, and how he would have loved to see the dolphins. Those nights, they fed on fresh meat.
Then came a day of storm at sea, and a thick band of cloud descended, fogging them in. Cold rain pelted down, and lightning flashed in the heavens, and the muffled boom of thunder rolled across the waters. The ship tossed wildly, while sailors ran to and fro and the six passengers kept to their deckside tents. It seemed as though they could never survive the fury of the storm, as though they were fated to end at the bottom of the icy sea after having come so far. Great slaps of drifting ice pounded at the hull like the hammers of giants, and the ship veered perilously, high waves crashing across the bow and sending cold water sluicing over the deck.
Toward midnight the storm relented. Almost miraculously, the fog cleared, and the rain tinned to snow, and the sea calmed. Overhead gleamed the moon, haloed by a cloud. White, fluffy flakes drifted down, glittering like tinsel in the night, and lost themselves in the sea. It was a scene of pure magic, as tranquil and delicate as the storm had been violent and tempestuous. Chilled and wet through, teeth chattering, Jim stood by the rail a long moment, looking moonward.
* * *
Day slid into day, and one day there was the flash of wings; the sound of mocking laughter on high, and gulls swept past and out to sea, soaring splendidly on the wind. Excitement spurred the passengers. Jim followed the birds with the field glasses until they were lost to view.
"We're nearing shore," Ted declared. "We must be. The crewmen are all pointing at the birds."
"Look at them!" Jim cried. "Look at them soar!"
Ted nodded. As always, his blunt, high-cheekboned face displayed little emotion. "They're pretty, aren't they?" he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
"They're marvelous," Jim said. "Look! Here come some more!"
Another flight of gulls sliced past, cresting the ship only feet from the sailtops, filling the air with their wild screeching. They, too, sped past, swirling downward to the water to harvest their lunch. Then they were gone.
Jim turned. The sailors, those fierce, red-bearded men, had gathered together on the foredeck, and stood with bowed heads while their captain intoned a series of short lines of verse. Even in the harsh seafarer language, the words sounded oddly beautiful. The ceremony lasted perhaps five minutes, and ended when a young crewman came forward carrying a slab of dried meat.
The captain hurled it into the sea. Then the assembly broke up. Its meaning was obvious: the sailors had been giving thanks for a safe crossing, and were making a gratitude offering to the god of the waters.
* * *
Late that afternoon, the shore of Europe came into sight.
A thin line of white rimmed the horizon. Ice floes clustered, thick in the water. Occasionally some gleaming, powerful creature could be seen, gliding through the water or sunning itself on a little island of ice-a walrus, perhaps, or a seal. Sea birds were common here, wheeling and shrieking overhead. The scene was much the same as that which they had left behind the day they parted with Kennart. A wide, flat sheet of ice stretched before them.
The vessel of the seafarers came to "port," anchoring against the ice shelf itself, and the sleds were lowered from the ship. One by one, the New Yorkers disembarked. As Jim started to go down the ladder, the seafarer chieftain suddenly came up to him, reached out, took his hand.
The bearded captain's grip was bone-crushing. Jim endured it, gritting his teeth. The big man smiled, drew close to Jim, pounded him playfully on the back.
The stink of salt fish came from him, and Jim fought for breath.
"Sure," Jim said, grinning back. "I understand. You have no hard feelings."
The chief said something in his incomprehensible language.
"Thanks," Jim said. "And I hope you have a safe voyage, too, wherever you re going. But I wish you'd let go of my hand. I may need it again."
The chief said something else, and released him. Jim smiled, clapped the bulky captain stoutly on the shoulder-the good one, not the one he had dislocated-and scrambled down the ladder before the seafarer could find some other equally strenuous way to show his friendship. Jim flexed his fingers as he left the ship. Nothing broken, he thought. Only bent, a little.
When all was unloaded, the seafarers raised anchor, lifted sail. They waved, shouted raucous farewells, as their ship began to glide off, southward along the ice shore.
"They aren't such bad sorts at all," Carl said.
"Just a bit roughhewn," Jim commented. "But friendly, once you get to know them."
Dr. Barnes came over. "We're going to start out right away," he said. "Unless anyone has any objectio
ns."
"How far do you figure we are from London, Dad?" Jim asked.
The older man shook his head. "About a thousand miles, I'd guess. Just exactly how far, I can't say. Dave is going to run some readings later on in the day. One thing's certain: we're well past the halfway point."
That was good news, Jim thought. If more lay behind them than ahead, there was no reason why they could not make it the rest of the way to London.
But he felt little jubilation at the thought. For two of those who had started out from New York, the trip had long since ended. Others might yet lose their lives before London was attained. And no one could predict the welcome they would get when finally they reached their long-sought goal. Right now, however, simply the hope of getting to London was enough to spur them on through hardship and danger. But if they reached London, and were turned away? Where to then? Back across the ice and sea to New York? No, that was impossible.
Jim preferred to think little of such things. There was time to confront trouble when it came to plague them; no need to fret ahead of time.
The sleds were fully charged. The six voyagers spent a while getting accustomed to terra firma again, to an environment that remained steady beneath their feet, and then they were off, once again journeying toward the sunrise.
This part of the ice pack was much like that which lay between the Jersey encampment and the sea. But they had no Kennart to guide them now, and could only trust to luck that they would avoid the snares and pitfalls of the ice. There was no sign of human life here, no abandoned igloos, no traces of nomad hunters. Animal tracks in the light covering of snow above the ice told of wildlife, but no creatures appeared.
Their luck was good. The ice was sturdy here, and no perils presented themselves. Their first day on the European ice shelf was the best they had had since leaving New York; they covered more than a hundred miles, coursing eastward in the encouraging knowledge that with each passing mile they were that much farther from the sea, that much closer to the solid ice that overlay the land ahead.