cc.iceberg-第45节

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　As　if　perceiving　the　bird's　thoughts；　Pitt　stared　down　at　his　offbeat　clothing　and　murmured　vaguely　to　himself；　〃I've　heard　of　being　all　dressed　up　with　no　place　to　go；　but　this　is　ridiculous。〃
　
　The　sound　of　his　voice　suddenly　woke　him　up　to　the　fact　that　his　mind　was　working　again。　He　felt　the　relief　that　was　due　from　overing　the　exhausting　climb　from　the　ravine；　the　high　elation　of　being　alive　and　the　hope　of　finding　help　before　the　people　below　died　from　the　near…freezing　temperatures。　Jubilantly　he　struck　out　across　the　tundra　toward　the　distant　hills。
　
　Fifty　feet；　no　further；　that　was　as　far　as　Pitt　got　when　it　abruptly　hit　him。　He　was　lost。　The　sun　was　high　above　the　skyline。　There　were　no　stars　to　guide　him。
　
　North；　south；　east　and　west　were　words　that　meant　nothing；　had　no　definition　in　terms　of　measurement　or　accuracy。　Once　he　entered　the　mist　that　was　crawling　across　the　land　toward　him；　he　would　have　no　guideline；　no　landmarks　to　take　a　sight　on。　He　was　lost；　adrift　without　any　sense　of　direction。
　
　For　once　that　cold；　damp　morning；　he　didn't　feel　the　grip　of　fear。
　
　It　wasn't　that　he　knew　fear　would　cloud　his　thoughts；　confuse　his　reasoning。　He　was　consumed　with　sharp　anger　that　he　should　have　been　so　beautifully　tricked　into　placency；　so　ignorantly　unaware　that　he　was　stumbling　to　his　death。　Every　contingency；　the　puters　of　Hermit　Limited；　his　arch…enemy；　had　mechanically　figured　on　every　contingency。　The　stakes　were　too　high　in　the　murderous　game　that　Kelly；　Rondheim　and　their　group　of　incredibly　ruthless　business　associates　were　playing。　But　he　swore　to　himself　that　he　wasn't　going　to　be　forced　to　land　on　Boardwalk　and　pay　a　rent　he　couldn't　afford　without　passing　Go。　He　stopped；　sat　down　and　took　stock。
　
　It　didn't　take　any　great　ingenious　deduction　to　determine　that　he　was　sitting　somewhere　in　the　middle　of　the　uninhabited　part　of　Iceland。
　
　He　tried　to　remember　what　little　he　had　learned　about　the　Eden　of　the　North　Atlantic；　what　few　facts　he　bad　absorbed　when　studying　the　flight　maps　on　board　the　Catawaba。　The　island　stretched　one　hundred　ninety　miles　from　north　to　south；　he　recalled；　and　nearly　three　hundred　miles　from　east　to　west。　Since　the　shortest　distance　between　two　points　was　north　and　south；　the　other　two　directions　were　eliminated。　If　he　traveled　south；　there　was　every　possibility　that　he　would　run　onto　the　Vatnajbkull　ice　mass；　not　only　Iceland's　but　Europe's　largest　glacier；　a　great　frozen　wall　that　would　have　signaled　the　end　of　every　thing。
　
　North　it　was；　he　decided。　The　logic　behind　his　decision　bordered　on　the　primitive；　but　there　was　another　reason；　a　pelling　urge　to　outsmart　the　puters　by　traveling　in　the　direction　least　expected；　a　direction　that　offered　the　least　obvious　chance　of　success。　The　average　man　in　similar　circumstances　would　have　probably　headed　toward　Reykjavik；　the　largest　sprawl　of　civilization；　far　to　the　west　and　south。　That　is　undoubtedly；　he　hoped；　what　the　puters　had　been　programmed　for…the　average　man。
　
　Now　he　had　an　answer；　but　it　was　only　half　an　answer。　Which　way　was　north？　Even　if　he　knew　for　certain；　he　had　no　means　to　follow　it　along　a　straight　line。
　
　The　accepted　fact　that　a　man　who　was　right…handed　would　eventually　make　a　great　arc　to　his　right　without　any　landmarks　to　guide　him；　came　back　to　haunt　Pitts　thoughts。
　
　The　whine　of　the　jet　engines　interrupted　his　reverie　and　he　looked　up；　holding　his　hand　to　shield　his　eyes　from　the　glare　of　the　cobalt　blue　sky；　sighting　a　mercial　airliner　cruising　serenely　ahead　of　its　long　white　contrails。　Pitt　could　only　wonder　at　the　aircraft's　course。
　
　It　could　have　been　heading　anywhere：　west　to　Reykjavik；　east　to　Norway；　southeast　to　London。　There　was　no　way　to　tell　for　certain　unless　he　had　a　pass。
　
　A　pass；　the　word　lingered　in　his　mind；　savored　like　the　thought　of　an　ice…cold　beer　by　a　man　dying　of　thirst　in　the　middle　of　the　Mojave　Desert。　A　pass；　a　simple　piece　of　magnetic　iron　mounted　on　a　pivot　and　floating　in　a　mixture　of　glycerin　and　water。　Then　a　light　suddenly　clicked　on　deep　in　the　recesses　of　his　brain。　A　long…forgotten　bit　of　outdoor　lore　he'd　learned　many　years　before　during　a　four…day　hike　in　the　Sierras　with　his　old　Boy　Scout　troop　began　to　break　through　the　fog…shrouded　barrier　of　time。
　
　It　took　him　nearly　ten　minutes　of　searching　before　he　found　a　small　pool　of　water　trapped　in　a　shallow　depression　beneath　a　dome…shaped　hill。　Quickly；　as　dexterously　as　his　raw　and　bleeding　fingers　would　allow；　Pitt　unclasped　the　brown　sash　and　tore　off　the　pin　that　held　it　in　place。　Wrapping　one　end　of　the　long　silk　material　around　his　knee；　he　knelt　and　pulled　it　taut　with　his　left　hand　and　with　his　right　began　stroking　the　pin　from　head　to　tip　in　a　single　direction　against　the　silk；　building　friction　and　magnetizing　the　tiny　piece　of　metal。
　
　The　cold　was　increasing　now；　creeping　into　his　。sweat…soaked　clothes　and　forcing　a　spasm　of　shivers　to　grip　his　body。　The　pin　slipped　through　his　fingers；　and　he　spent　useless　minutes　probing　the　mossy　ground　cover　until　he　discovered　the　little　silver　sliver　by　accidentally　running　it　a　quarter　of　an　inch　under　a　fingernail。
　
　He　was　almost　thankful　for　the　pain；　as　it　meant　there　was　still　feeling　in　his　hands。　He　kept　pushing　the　pin　back　and　forth　across　the　silk；　careful　not　to　let　it　slip　through　his　fingers　again。
　
　When　he　felt　satisfied　that　further　friction　would　add　nothing　more；　he　rubbed　the　pin　over　his　forehead　and　nose；　covering　it　with　as　much　skin　oil　as　it　could　hold。　Then　he　took　two　slender　bits　of　thread　from　the　lining　of　his　red　jacket　and　doubled　them　loosely　around　the　pin。　The　tricky　part　of　the　operation　was　yet　to　e；　so　Pitt　relaxed　for　a　moment　flexing　his　fingers　and　massaging　them　much　like　a　piano　player　preparing　to　tackle　Chopin's　Minute　Waltz。
　
　Feeling　he　was　ready；　he　gingerly　picked　up　the　two　loops　and　with　painstaking　slowness　lowered　the　pin　into　the　calm　little　pond。　Holding　a　deep　breath；　Pitt　watched　the　water　bend　under　the　weight　of　the　metal。　Then　ever　so　gently　his　fingers　cautiously　slid　the　threads　apart　until　the　pin　swam　by　itself；　kept　afloat　by　the　oil　and　the　surface　tension　of　the　water。
　
　Only　a　child　at　Christmastime；　staring　wide…eyed　at　an　array　of　gifts　under　the　tree；　could　have　experienced　the　same　feeling　of　wonder　that　Pitt　did　that　moment　as　he　sat　entranced　and　watched　that　crazy　little　pin　swing　leisurely　in　a　half　circle　until　its　head　pointed　toward　magnetic　north。　He　sat　there　unmoving　for　a　full　three　minutes；　staring　at　his　makeshift　pass；　almost　afraid　that　if　he　blinked　his　eyes；　it　would　sink　and　disappear。
　〃Let's　see　your　goddamned　puter　e　up　with　that　one；〃　Pitt　murmured　to　the　empty　air。
　
　A　tenderfoot　might　have　impatiently　started　running　in　the　direction　the　pin　pointed；　mistaken　in　the　assumption　that　a　pass　always　faithfully　aims　its　point　toward　true　north。　Pitt　knew　that　the　only　place　where　a　pass　would　unerringly　indicate　the　North　Pole　was　a　small　area　in　the　Great　Lakes　between　the　United　States　and　Canada　where　by　chance　the　North　and　Magnetic　Poles　e　into　line。　As　an　experienced　navigator；　he　was　also　aware　that　the　Magnetic　Pole　lay　somewhere　beneath　Prince　of　Wales　Island　above　Hudson　Bay；　approximately　one　thousand　miles　below　the　Arctic　Pole　and　only　a　few　hundred　miles　above　Iceland。　That　meant　that　the　pin　was　pointing　a　few　degrees　north　of　west。　Pitt　figured　his　pass　declination　at　about　eighty　degrees；　a　rough　guess　at　best；　but　at　least　he　was　certain　that　north　now　stood　at　a　near　right　angle　to　the　head　of　the　pin。
　
　Pitt　took　his　bearing　and　picked　the　rudimentary　pass　needle　Out　of　the　water　and　started　walking　into　the　mist。　He　hadn't　covered　a　hundred　yards　when　he　could　taste　the　blood　springing　from　the　open　cuts　on　his　inner　lips；　the　teeth　loosened　in　his　gums；　and　with　all　he　had　already　suffered；　the　pain　inaugurated　by　Rondheim's　kick　to　the　groin；　which　made　it　impossible　for　him　to　walk　without　…a　heavy　limping　gait。　He　forced　himself　to　keep　going；　to　cling　tenaciously　to　the　thread　Of　consciousness。　The　ground　was　rough　and　uneven　and　he　soon　lost　count　of　the　number　of　times　he　stumbled　and　fell；　wrapping　his　arms　around　his　chest　in　a　vain　attempt　to　deaden　the　torture　from　the　cracked　ribs。
　
　Luck　stayed　with　him　and　the　mist　disappeared　after　an　hour　and　a　half；　offering　him　a　chance　to　take　advantage　of　the　many　hot　springs　he　passed　and　orient　his　bearings　with　the　pass　pin。　Now　he　could　line　up　a　landmark　to　the　north　and　keep　shifting　from　one　landmark　to　the　next　until　he　was　sure　he　was　straying。
　
　Then　he　would　stop　and　take　another　pass　reading　and　begin　the　process　over　again。
　
　Two　hours　became　three。　Three　hours　became　four。　Each　minute　was　an　infinite　unit　of　misery　and　suffering　of　aching　cold；　of　intense　burning　pain；　of　fighting　for　control　of　his　mind。　Time。　melted　into　an　eternity　which　Pitt　knew　might　not　end　until　he　fell　against　the　soft；　damp　grass　for　the　last　time。　In　spite　of　his　determination；　he　began　to　have　doubts　that　he　would　live　through　the　next　few　hours。
　
　One　step　in　front　of　the　other；　an　endless