The White Darkness by Geraldine McCaughrean

Author:Geraldine McCaughrean [McCaughrean, Geraldine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperTeen
Published: 2021-02-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

“What Each Man Feels in His Heart, I Can Only Guess.” —Scott

We were left straddling a crevasse, the rear of the front cab overhanging it, all but a yard of the back van supported by thin air. Manfred Bruch continued screaming: I could hear him through the intercom, through Uncle Victor’s headset, even, I’m sure, through the walls of the vehicle.

The windows were all sweating with condensation from our breath. The fog was a kindness. If I could have seen out—seen down into the dark—I don’t think I could ever have moved my head or hands again, ever have looked away. As it was, I managed to turn and look at Victor. He would know what to do. He would get us out of it—infallible, resourceful Uncle Victor, who had aligned the atoms in his brain to increase his IQ.

His hands were white on the steering wheel. His lips were between his teeth. His glasses were slightly bent from the first crash. “What we’re about now,” he said, “is an orderly evacuation. Bruch. Listen up, Bruch. Move toward the back door. If we lighten the vehicle, we can maybe ease her—”

“No!” I said, tugging the headphones wide from his head, shouting into the microphone. “Don’t get out! Manfred! Sigurd! Don’t get out. The footprint of the vehicle’s lighter than a man’s. Don’t get out.” What a stupid expression: “the footprint of the vehicle.” But I’d just now been reading the manufacturer’s manual, hadn’t I? And those were the words! I don’t do words of my own. I only do . . . “the footprint of the vehicle.” What does it mean? How can a four-ton amphibious tank weigh less than a man? Even I don’t believe it, but that’s what it said in the book. That’s what the words said. They’re not my words. They’re trustworthy, believable, grown-up words. Nonfiction. “Don’t get out of the truck! If it’s less than four meters wide, we can get over it!”

Four meters. Four meters. Four meters. How wide do you think it is, Titus?

“Open the door and take a look, dearie.”

I couldn’t get hold of the door latch in my overlarge mittens, tore one off, opened the door a crack, just a crack. The fog came in like an Arabian genie, insinuating its way around my legs and face. I could see all three of the icy metal steps, so the fog must have thinned; maybe it had been sucked into the crevasse by the falling snow. Maybe it had served its purpose, in losing us. For half their width, the steps overhung the crevasse; for half they were over snow. If I opened the door wide enough, I could probably lower myself down on to the brink of the crevasse before the Hagglund jackknifed backward into the abyss. How could a little pair of feet weigh more per square whatever than this big, red, ungainly, solid metal tank? How absurd. What rubbish. How implausible. Except that I don’t have little feet. This is Sym the clumsy, Sym the crass—elegant as a swan out of water.

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