“We’ve got to get back in there. The animals …”
“Are already gone,” I said softly. “The ice has them now.”
Challenger couldn’t really argue with me; we could see it clearly—the whole of the new enclosure was already little more than a solid dome of ice, with more ice already encroaching toward our feet.
“It would seem discretion is the greater part of valor,” Logie Baird said.
We fled; winter came after us. As we ran through Regent’s Park, snow started to fall.
London had never seen a summer like it. Snow fell steadily all through Monday afternoon and evening, over a foot of it, before it got too cold for precipitation and the ice took over. The Thames froze in the early hours of Tuesday morning, and by dawn much of the population was heading south across the bridges, to Putney or Blackheath or Clapham where the sun still shone and winter seemed a long way off. All transport north of the river as far as Finchley was at a standstill, and the great city ground to a shuddering halt.
Of course blame had to be apportioned; a scapegoat had to be found, and not for the first time, poor old Challenger fit the bill. I was roped in along with Logie Baird for having been the visible face of the ongoing disaster, at least in the minds of the great and good who had gathered for the opening. We were called in front of an emergency session of the Cabinet in Southwark Town Hall on Tuesday evening.
The Home Secretary led the charge.
“It’s a bally disgrace,” he said. “And not for the first time. Would you care to explain yourselves?”
“Not particularly,” Challenger said, as calm as I have ever seen him. “I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, but it’s only a spot of cold. It happens every year.”
“Not in bloody June, it doesn’t. Since when do we get cricket snowed off?”
“Oh, if it’s the cricket you’re worried about …”
The Prime Minister interrupted. “Can it be stopped? That’s what we’re here to find out. Waterloo Station is starting to ice up—it’s still spreading south.”
Challenger yielded the floor to Logie Baird, but the Scotsman had as little luck explaining the science to the ministers as he had with me.
“The generator will only run for a week at the most,” he said, finally. “Perhaps we should let things run their course?”
“A week?” The Home Secretary laughed bitterly. “At the rate this is going, we’ll have iced up the Home Counties by then. We’d be the laughingstock of the world—never mind the votes we’d lose at the next election. This must be stopped—and it must be stopped tonight.”
“In that case, we’ll need the Army,” Challenger said. “And Lord’s Cricket Ground—it’s not getting used for anything at the moment anyway.”
We were promised that the Army would be at our disposal, and were told, in no uncertain terms, that we wouldn’t have much of a future outside Pentonville prison if we did not get the job done. I’m afraid I was rather despondent—if I’d had the opportunity, I might have made straight for the nearest bar for a stiffener.
Logie Baird had the same idea, but he carried his liquor around with him, and produced a hip flask. After two swigs of fiery Scotch, I was feeling somewhat happier with my lot—besides, I was yet again at the center of a story that would fill the front pages. As a reporter, I could scarcely ask for better. As a man, however, I’d have much rather been home in a warm bed following the story from afar.
That was not to be. At eight o’clock an Army captain—Briggs by name—arrived and announced he was at our disposal. By eight-thirty we were in the back of a truck, heavily swaddled in coats and travel rugs, heading across Westminster Bridge into the teeth of a cold the like of which I have never before encountered.
Two more trucks followed us—Challenger and Logie Baird had asked for some equipment to be fetched from the Scotsman’s workshop in Catford, but all I knew was that it was electrical in nature, and delicate. Beyond that, I did not have the slightest clue as to what their plan might be, or whether I had any part to play in it.
I was at the rear of the truck so was most exposed to the chill—but it also meant I was the only one of tus who got a clear view of the devastation. Even during the coldest of winters, I have never seen such sights. The city was little more than a sheet of ice punctuated with tall structures that might have been streets and houses, shops and factories, but were no longer discernible beneath yet more ice and snow. The streets were softened into humps and hillocks, so that London did not seem a modern city at all, but more like an Antarctic landscape.
And yet there was still evidence of a population—not everyone had fled, although it was clear that they should have. We passed several soft mounds I took to be drifts, only to see blue-tinged limbs under the ice when I looked more closely. I stopped looking after I had seen more than a dozen.
The area around Euston was worse. It was obvious that a large crowd had gathered in an attempt to catch trains fleeing north. They had not made it out in time and now lay or even stood leaning on one another—a frozen army that seemed to cry out for warmth as we drove past, unable to provide help.
After that, I closed the back flap and lit up a smoke. I didn’t look out again until we reached our destination—Lord’s Cricket Ground.
I was starting to feel like a fifth wheel as the evening wore on. Logie Baird and Challenger directed operations, and the Army lads unloaded equipment from the trucks. They also had the foresight to bring along half a dozen braziers that we huddled around when not actively busy helping, but the chill bit deep, and even with a scarf wrapped around my face the cold sank deeper into my chest with each breath. Challenger barked orders that were thankfully obeyed, while Logie Baird directed the construction of a contraption of brass and glass that appeared to my eye to be same as the one now under ice in the zoo. The difference in this model was its mobility, it being mounted on four stout wheels.
“Just what we need,” I said sarcastically as Logie Baird came to warm his hands at the brazier. “More ice.”
“My machine may look the same to your eyes, Malone,” he said. “But just as ice is water at a different energy level, so water is ice, and all it takes is a small shift in the balance of things to change one to the other. This is no ice-maker. This is a heat-maker—did Challenger not tell you that our next project was to be a desert environment for the zoo? Watch and learn, Malone, watch and learn.”
All I had learned so far was how to mess things up on a grand scale, and I did not think that was at all useful to my education. I kept my mouth shut and watched them work—at least they had a plan, which is more than could be said for me.
Finally, after what seemed like hours during which I merely stood by the brazier and pretended to be warm, they announced themselves ready.
“I have a question,” I asked. “Why here? Why not somewhere closer to the zoo?”
Challenger waved an arm to indicate the cricket ground. “We have an open area that is also somewhat enclosed by the stands. We need to test whether this bally thing works. And if there’s a problem, it will be contained here—at least, that is our hope.”
I was not exactly brimming with confidence as Logie Baird threw the main switch to activate the device.
It started slowly, a distant hum and a trembling of the ice underfoot. My feet felt colder, and I stamped; left, then right. By the time my right foot went down it met not ice but slush, and within seconds we were all standing in a muddy puddle and getting too warm for the amount of clothing we had piled on against the chill.
“It’s working,” I said.
“Yes,” Logie Baird said sarcastically. “I think we can all see that.”
Within seconds the whole of Lords was little more than a two-inch-deep pond—a soggy wicket should one wish to play cricket, but a huge improvement on the icy hell it had been so recently.
We moved out slowly, our truck pushing the heat-maker ahead of it, Challenger, Logie Baird and I standing on the cart with the machine.
For the first quarter of a mile the ice melted away ahead of us. I had to divest myself of several layers of clothing, and my hands finally warmed up enough for me to manage to light a smoke. I was just starting to believe we might be have a chance of success when we turned a corner and reached the edge of Regent’s Park.
The wall of ice ahead of us was twenty meters high and looked as solid as any rock face. As the heat we were generating reached it, the surface glistened, melted a fraction of an inch … and immediately froze again.
Challenger appeared undaunted.
“More power,” he shouted.
Logie Baird obliged and turned a dial. The heat began to focus on a point directly ahead of us, burning and melting a small hole that grew larger quickly until we had the beginnings of a cave—a tunnel, almost, heading into the ice.
“Forward,” Challenger roared. The truck pushed us toward the ice wall, and I was suddenly all too aware of all the things that might go wrong—and of the looming weight of ice now above our heads as we entered the passage.
The ice melted away ahead of us, but we were stopped by a screech of mangled metal and the screams of men from behind. The truck pushing our machine had successfully followed us into the new breach—but a second truck had not been so fortunate. The ice had already reformed in the initial gap, crushing and enfolding the vehicle in a viselike grip until all that was left was a flattened mass of crushed metal, canvas and torn limbs.
“We must retreat,” I shouted.
Challenger shook his head. “That is not an option I will consider. Full ahead—it’s the only way. We need to get to the enclosure and shut this thing down before it spreads further; I will not have any more dead men on my conscience.
Logie Baird had his head down, concentrating on turning dials and twiddling knobs. I had no idea whether it was his efforts that were able to maintain the heat source that melted the ice ahead—and I was not about to interrupt him to ask.
We inched forward.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” I asked after a few minutes—more to hear myself talk and remind myself I was still alive than from any desire for conversation. I could have reached out and touched the roof of the ice wall overhead, and the sound of it crackling as it reformed behind us was more than enough reminder of the peril we had placed ourselves in. It was a sparkling, beautiful, blue hell—and we were heading deeper inside it.
“I know exactly where we are,” Challenger said, at the same moment proving it by turning and motioning to the truck driver to veer slightly to the left. “We passed the bandstand two minutes ago; the duck pond is over to our left, and although it is probably frozen completely solid, I do not wish to risk melting the water below us. It wouldn’t do to sink now, so close to our goal.”
“And how far is that?”
“About ten minutes at this speed. Chin up, Malone—it’ll soon be over.”
Logie Baird’s machine began to whine three minutes later.
Smoke rose in puffs from the machine’s interior, and the ice contracted closer around us, so close I believe my hair brushed the ceiling.
“Keep going—just keep going,” Logie Baird shouted. “I’ll do what I can.”
Challenger motioned for the driver to speed up, and Logie Baird pushed the heat intensity higher, so much so that water boiled and hissed as ice flashed instantly to steam. It very quickly became damp and humid in our little bubble, but we made better progress, and I started to recognize the vague shapes of zoo buildings embedded in the ice around us.
Logie Baird’s machine, however, was in trouble—it wheezed and coughed like an asthmatic duck, and the heat now came in irregular pulses rather than in one continuous flow. As we pulled to a stop over the top of the soggy remains of a large marquee, the small Scotsman was clearly worried.
“I don’t know how long it can keep this up, Challenger,” he said. “It may only be a matter of minutes.”
Challenger looked ahead of us. The domed structure of the enclosure was clearly visible, just yards away, but the ice seemed even more thickly packed here; dark blue, almost like metal.
“Can we make this bubble we are in bigger—do we have enough for one big push?” Challenger said.
Logie Baird looked thoughtful. “Aye, maybe. But as soon as it’s done, so are we—the ice will just come back and crush us.”
“Not if I can get to the generator inside,” Challenger said grimly. “Warm it up—I’m going in.”
Logie Baird wasted no time. He turned a knob, all the way to the right, and heat seemed to explode all around us, a concussion that almost knocked me off my feet and brought an immediate clammy sweat over my whole body. Steam hissed and ice cracked. A deep puddle formed below us, and the ice above us retreated away. I saw the domed enclosure appear through sudden fog, water sloughing off its roof.
“Now or never, Challenger,” Baird shouted, and Challenger leapt from the cart, splashing in knee deep slush toward the dome. I surprised myself by jumping down after him.
I caught up with him at the main door to the enclosure. Ice cracked, high overhead, and I looked up—the bubble created by Logie Baird’s burst of heat had already began to contract.
“Whatever you’re going to do, best do it now,” I said, as we headed in to the dome.
The interior was now far removed from Challenger’s vision of a perfect Arctic environment. The thick iron bars had buckled and been torn by the sheer weight of ice, the walls were cracked and broken, ready to tumble at the slightest shock, and worst of all, the bodies of the dead animals lay strewn, pitiful corpses underfoot.
Challenger paused briefly and looked around. “We will rebuild,” he muttered under his breath and then forged ahead, making for the laboratory door.
We hit the door together, barging through into a cramped room dominated by Logie Baird’s machine. I could just dimly make out the attachments and cables leading to a generator on the far wall from us—but our way was almost completely blocked, as fresh ice had formed around the machine, and was already thickening further as we watched. A throbbing vibration through the floor told me that the machine was still very much active.
I saw the full depth of Challenger’s commitment in that moment. He charged forward with no thought of personal safety, skirted the machine as much as he could to find the nearest point to the generator cable, and proceeded to attack the ice like a madman with anything that came to hand. He kicked, punched, tore a door off a cupboard and pounded until it fell apart in splinters and then finally resorted to ripping at the ice in frenzy with his bare hands. Ice began to form on his chest, creeping up into his beard, and still he would not stop.
And I could not leave my friend to attempt the seeming hopeless task alone—I leapt to his side, doing my best to stop the ice engulfing him as he tried to reach the generator cable.
It seemed hopeless—for every inch we made headway, the ice came back twice as fast.
Challenger howled in rage. “I will not be beaten—I will not.”
He attacked with renewed vigor, but still, defeat seemed inevitable.
A soft voice spoke behind us. “Would these help?”
Logie Baird was behind us—he held a long walrus task in each hand. Challenger saw his intent immediately. Wielding a tusk like a pick, he started knocking larger chips out of the compressed ice. I wasn’t slow to follow, and together we finally managed to make some headway, although on the other side of the room our escape route was already closing fast.
“Get ready!” Challenger shouted. Logie Baird knelt between us as we concentrated our efforts, smashing icy splinters all around as we finally hacked down to the cable.
Logie Baird took out a pocketknife and started to cut into the small portion of the cable we had cleared,
“Faster, man!” Challenger exclaimed.
We were now almost completely enclosed in a new ice bubble, one that was encroaching fast. We hacked, and Logie Baird cut, and it seemed to go on forever until there was a b
linding flash of heat and light. I was knocked backward. Challenger fell on top of me, digging an elbow hard into my ribs, and Logie Baird fell on my legs, pinning me to the ground, even as the ice started to crack and fall in shards all around us.
By the time we disentangled ourselves and stood, our feet were in a puddle of slush. There was no vibration through the floor—the machine had stopped, and the ice was melting fast.
Of course there was a dreadful mess to clean up afterward. Both Challenger and Logie Baird took terrible abuse from sections of the press—not from my paper, of course, because we had the inside story, and for that my friends and I could be forgiven a multitude of sins.
Journalistic condemnation was nothing new to either man, and when I met them for a drink in the George several weeks later, they seemed in fine spirits, despite their newfound infamy.
I bought the first of several large Scotches and returned with the glasses to our table.
“What, no ice?” Logie Baird asked, and raised an eyebrow.
Challenger’s booming laughter filled the bar.
About the Author
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines with recent sales to NATURE Futures, Penumbra, and Buzzy Mag, among others. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he’s not writing he dreams of fortune and glory. More at williammeikle.com
About the Artist
M. Wayne Miller is an illustrator for numerous book and magazine publishers as well as several role-playing game publishers. His list of clients includes Dark Renaissance Press, Tor/Forge, Dark Regions Press, Marietta Publishing, LORE Publishing, Thunderstorm Books, Genius Publishing, Journalstone Publishing, Gamewick Games, Dias Ex Machina, Chaosium, and Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show. Wayne continues his quest to learn and grow as an artist and illustrator. He lives in Greensboro, NC, with his wife, Carmen, and a very large cat.
Professor Challenger: The Kew Growths and Other Stories Page 24
