p&c.icelimit-第41部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ne　off　while　awake。　As　a　uniform；　he　found　it　vastly　more　intimidating　than　a　policeman's　and　only　a　little　less　so　than　the　grim　reaper's。　Surgical　smocks；　especially　when　flecked　with　blood；　tended　to　hurry　office　visits　along　and　speed　unnecessary　conversations。
　He　stepped　out　of　his　cabin　and　paused　in　the　long　hallway　of　the　medical　suite；　surveying　the　parallel　lines　of　open　doorways。　Nobody　in　the　waiting　room。　Ten　beds；　all　empty。　It　was　most　satisfactory。
　Entering　the　medical　laboratory；　he　washed　his　hands　in　the　oversized　sink；　then　flicked　the　water　from　his　fingers　while　turning　in　a　small　circle；　in　an　irreverent　imitation　of　a　priest。　Nudging　the　hot…air　dryer　with　his　elbow；　he　rubbed　his　knobbed　old　hands　before　the　gush　of　air。　As　he　did　so；　he　gazed　around　at　the　neat　rows　of　well…worn　books：　overflow　from　his　cabin。　Above　them　he　had　hung　two　pictures：　a　depiction　of　Jesus　Christ；　with　the　fire　and　thorns　of　the　sacred　heart；　and　a　small；　faded　photograph　of　two　identical　babies　in　sailor　suits。　The　picture　of　Christ　reminded　him　of　many　things；　some　self…contradictory　but　always　interesting。　The　picture　of　himself　and　his　twin　brother；　Simon；　who　had　been　murdered　by　a　mugger　in　New　York　City；　reminded　him　of　why　he　had　never　married　or　had　children。
　He　pulled　on　a　pair　of　latex　gloves；　snapped　on　the　ring　light；　and　swiveled　the　magnifying　glass　into　place　over　the　gurney。　Then　he　opened　the　evidence　locker　and　stared　disapprovingly　at　the　jumble　of　bones。　He　could　see　right　away　that　several　were　missing；　and　the　rest　had　been　tossed　in　higgledy…piggledy；　with　no　regard　for　anatomy。　He　shook　his　wizened　head　at　the　general　inpetence　of　the　world。
　He　began　removing　the　bones；　identifying　them；　and　arranging　them　in　their　proper　places　on　the　gurney。　Not　much　sign　of　animal　damage；　beyond　the　nibblings　of　rodents。　Then　his　brow　furrowed。　The　number　of　perimortem　breaks　was　unusual；　even　remarkable。　He　paused；　a　nugget　of　bone　suspended　halfway　between　locker　and　gurney。　Then；　more　slowly；　he　placed　it　on　the　metal　surface。　There　was　a　stillness　in　the　medical　suite　as　Brambell　stepped　back；　folded　his　green…suited　arms；　and　stared　at　the　remains。
　Ever　since　his　Dublin　childhood；　his　mother　had　entertained　dreams　of　her　twin　lads　growing　up　to　be　doctors。　Ma　Brambell　had　been　an　irresistible　natural　force；　and　so；　like　his　brother　Simon；　Patrick　had　gone　to　medical　school。　While　Simon　had　relished　the　job　and　gone　on　to　great　acclaim　as　a　medical　examiner　in　New　York；　Patrick　found　himself　resenting　the　time　away　from　literature。　Over　the　years；　he　had　gravitated　to　ships；　most　recently　to　large　tankers；　where　the　crews　were　small　and　the　acmodations　fortable。　And　so　far；　the　Rolvaag　had　lived　up　to　his　expectations。　No　parade　of　broken　bones；　raging　fevers；　or　dripping　cases　of　clap。　Aside　from　a　few　bouts　of　seasickness；　a　sinus　infection；　and　of　course　Glinn's　preoccupation　with　the　meteorite　hunter；　he　had　been　left　to　read　his　books。　Until　now。
　But　as　he　stared　at　the　collection　of　broken　bones；　Brambell　felt　an　uncharacteristic　curiosity　stirring　within　him。　The　silence　of　the　medical　lab　was　broken　by　the　whistled　strains　of　〃The　Sprig　of　Shillelagh。〃
　More　quickly　now；　Brambell；　whistling　merrily；　finished　laying　out　the　skeleton。　He　examined　the　effects：　buttons；　bits　of　clothing；　an　old　boot。　Of　course　there　was　only　one　boot；　the　daft　beggars　had　missed　the　other。　Along　with　the　right　clavicle；　a　piece　of　the　ilium；　the　left　radius；　carpals　and　intercarpals。。。　He　made　a　mental　list　of　the　missing　bones。　At　least　the　skull　was　there；　if　in　several　pieces。
　He　bent　closer。　It；　too；　was　webbed　with　perimortem　fractures。　The　rim　of　the　orbit　was　heavy；　the　mandible　robust；　definitely　a　male。　From　the　state　of　the　sutural　closing　he　would　be　about　thirty…five；　maybe　forty。　A　small　man；　no　more　than　five　foot　seven；　but　powerfully　built；　with　well…developed　muscle　attachments。　Years　of　fieldwork；　no　doubt。　This　fit　the　profile　of　the　planetary　geologist　Nestor　Masangkay　that　Glinn　had　given　him。
　Many　of　the　teeth　were　snapped　off　at　the　root。　It　looked　like　the　poor　man　had　convulsed　so　hard　in　his　death　throes　that　he　had　broken　all　his　teeth；　and　even　split　his　jaw。
　Still　whistling；　Brambell　turned　his　attention　to　the　postcranial　skeleton。　Virtually　every　bone　that　could　be　broken　was　broken。　He　wondered　what　could　have　caused　such　massive　trauma。　It　was　apparently　a　blow　to　the　front；　striking　simultaneously　from　toe　to　crown。　He　was　reminded　of　a　poor　skydiver　he　had　autopsied　in　medical　school；　the　man　had　packed　his　chute　wrong　and　fallen　three　thousand　feet　onto　the　middle　of　I…95。
　Brambell　caught　his　breath；　〃The　Sprig　of　Shillelagh〃　suddenly　dying　on　his　lips。　He　had　been　so　caught　up　by　the　fracturing　of　the　bones　that　he　had　not　stopped　to　examine　their　other　characteristics。　But　now；　as　he　did　so；　he　could　see　that　the　proximal　phalanges　showed　flaking　and　crumbling　characteristic　of　high　heat　…　or　severe　burning。　Almost　all　of　the　distal　phalanges　were　missing；　probably　pletely　burned　up。　Toes　and　fingers。　He　bent　closer。　The　broken　teeth　were　scorched；　the　brittle　enamel　spalling　off。
　His　eyes　made　a　circuit　of　the　remains。　The　parietal　showed　heavy　burn　damage；　the　bone　soft　and　crumbling。　He　bent　down；　sniffed。　Ah；　yes：　he　could　even　smell　it。　And　what　was　this？　Brambell　picked　up　a　belt　buckle。　The　bloody　thing　was　melted。　And　the　single　boot　wasn't　just　rotten　…　it　too　had　burned。　The　bits　of　cloth　were　also　scorched。　That　devil；　Glinn；　hadn't　mentioned　a　word　of　this；　although　he　surely　must　have　noticed。
　Then　Brambell　rocked　back　on　his　feet。　It　was　with　a　twinge　of　regret　that　he　realized　there　was　no　mystery　here；　after　all。　He　now　knew　exactly　how　the　prospector　had　died。
　In　the　dim　light　of　the　medical　spaces；　〃The　Sprig　of　Shillelagh〃　started　up　once　again；　the　merry　tune　now　sounding　a　little　mournful；　as　Brambell　carefully　closed　up　the　evidence　locker　and　returned　to　his　bunk。
　
　Isla　Desolacion；
　10：00　A。M。
　
　MCFARLANE　STOOD　at　the　frosted　window　of　the　munications　center；　melting　a　hole　with　his　hand。　Clouds　hung　heavy　over　the　Jaws　of　Hanuxa；　casting　a　pall　of　darkness　over　the　Cape　Horn　islands。　Behind　him；　Rochefort；　more　tense　than　usual；　was　typing　at　a　Silicon　Graphics　workstation。
　The　last　half　hour　had　seen　a　frenzy　of　activity。　The　corrugated…metal　shack　that　shielded　the　meteorite　from　view　had　been　moved　to　one　side；　and　the　area　above　the　rock　had　been　freshly　bladed　down　to　dirt；　a　dark　brown　scar　on　the　white　fairyland　of　snow。　A　small　army　of　workers　swarmed　about；　each　at　some　obscure　task。　The　radio　traffic　had　been　a　perfect　Babel　of　technical　inprehension。
　Outside；　a　deep…throated　whistle　blew。　McFarlane　felt　his　pulse　quicken。
　The　door　to　the　hut　banged　open　and　Amira　entered；　a　wide　smile　on　her　face。　ing　in　behind；　Glinn　closed　the　door　carefully；　then　went　to　stand　behind　Rochefort。　〃Lift　sequence　ready？〃　he　asked。
　〃Check。〃
　Glinn　lifted　a　radio　and　spoke　into　it。　〃Mr。　Garza？　Five　minutes　to　lift。　Please　monitor　this　frequency。〃　He　dropped　the　radio　and　glanced　at　Amira；　who　had　taken　a　seat　at　a　nearby　console　and　was　fitting　an　earphone。　〃Servos？〃
　〃On　line；〃　she　replied。
　〃So　what　will　we　see？〃　McFarlane　asked。　Already；　he　could　anticipate　Lloyd's　barrage　of　questions　during　the　next　videoconference。
　〃Nothing；〃　said　Glinn。　〃We're　only　raising　it　six　centimeters。　There　might　be　a　little　crackling　of　the　earth　above。〃　He　nodded　to　Rochefort。　〃Bring　the　jacks　up　to　sixty　tons　each。〃
　Rochefort's　hands　moved　across　the　keyboard。　〃Jacks　are　uniformly　engaging。　No　slippage。〃
　There　was　a　faint；　subaudible　vibration　in　the　ground。　Glinn　and　Rochefort　bent　close　to　the　screen；　examining　the　data　that　scrolled　past。　They　seemed　perfectly　calm　and　unconcerned。　Typing；　waiting；　typing　some　more。　It　seemed　so　routine。　Not　exactly　the　kind　of　meteorite　hunting　McFarlane　was　used　to：　digging　in　some　sheikh's　backyard　by　moonlight；　heart　in　mouth；　muffling　every　bite　of　the　shovel。
　〃Bring　the　jacks　up　to　seventy；〃　said　Glinn。
　〃Done。〃
　There　was　a　long；　boring　wait。
　〃Damn；〃　Rochefort　muttered。　〃I'm　getting　no　movement。　Nothing。〃
　〃Bring　them　up　to　eighty。〃
　Rochefort　tapped　on　some　keys。　There　was　a　pause；　then　he　shook　his　head。
　〃Rachel？〃　Glinn　asked。
　〃Nothing　wrong　with　the　servos。〃
　There　was　another　silence；　longer　this　time。
　〃We　should　have　seen　movement　at　sixty…seven　tons　per　jack。〃　Glinn　waited　a　moment；　then　spoke　again。　〃Raise　it　to　one　hundred。〃
　Rochefort　tapped　the　keyboard。　McFarlane　glanced　at　the　two　faces　illuminated　in　the　gleam　of　Rochefort's　monitor。　Suddenly；　the　tension　in　the　hut　had　risen　dramatically。
　〃Nothing？〃　asked　Glinn；　something　like　concern　in　his　voice。
　〃It's　still　sitting　there。〃　Rochefort's　face　was　even　more　pinched　than　usual。
　Glinn　straightened　up。　He　slowly　walked　to　the　window；　his　fingers　squeaking　on　the　glass　as　he　cleared　a　hole　through　the　frost。
　Minutes　crawled　by　while　Rochefort　remained　glued　to　the　puter　and　Amira　monitored　the　servos。　Then　Glinn　turned。
　〃All　right。　Let's　lower　the　jacks；　examine　the　settings