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his breath, and saw his companion gazing in fascination at the corpse and its multiple slashes.
    "My God," the doctor was muttering half to himself, "what in hell happened here?"
    "Come on, Copper," Macready growled at him impatient. "This one's blocked, too."
    "What?" The doctor stared blankly at the pilot, then snapped out of his daze and moved to help. Together they battered at the new obstacle until it moved enough to let them through.
    A metal storage cabinet had been used to brace the door. Beyond lay more blackness. The wind was stronger.
    Copper switched off the flashlight and took the lantern from Macready, freeing the latter to hold the gun with both hands. He held the lantern high, revealing a series of wooden steps leading downward.
    "Hey, Sweden!" Macready shouted into the blackness as be started downward.
    "They're not Swedish, goddamn it," Copper corrected him irritably. "They're Norwegian, Macre—"
    Something swished out of the darkness and smacked into his face . . .

The lantern fell from his startled grasp and went bouncing down the stairs like a runaway jack o'lantern. Copper stumbled and felt himself falling as he flailed at something whipping around his head. Macready leaned back against a solid wall and extricated his own flashlight, holding it in one hand and the shotgun in the other as he tried to locate their assailant.
    But Copper had recovered his equilibrium and subdued his attacker. He held it up, letting the wrinkled paper flap in the breeze that carried it down the stairwell.
    Macready walked over and took the paper. The notations at its bottom were in Norwegian, but it wouldn't have made any real difference if they'd been Chinese ideographs.
    "Norwegian-of-the-Month, Doc. Harmless." He started to toss the centerfold away, thought better of it and pocketed it for detailed inspection later on.
    An embarrassed Copper self-consciously adjusted his clothing and descended the last couple of steps to recover the still burning lantern. He waited there until Macready had rejoined him. Together they started down the subterranean corridor.
    The support beams holding up the ceiling were wood. They were twisted and buckled from the steady pressure of the ice around them. This was a more glacially active area than the plateau where the American outpost was located.
    The recent conflagration that had seared the camp further strained the strength of the woodwork. They could hear it creaking and complaining around them as they made their way up the tunnel. Bits of ice and silt trickled down, landing in their hair and tickling their cheeks.
    A broken beam lay crossways ahead of them, blocking the tunnel. It still smouldered. Macready ducked to slip gingerly underneath, brushing it gently. A shower of fine debris rained from the arched ceiling.
    "Easy here, Doc. This one belongs in the roof, not on the floor."
    Copper crouched and passed under the beam. It groaned but held steady. They continued onward.
    "Hey!
    "Mac? Something wrong?" Copper whirled, shining the light toward his companion.
    Macready was searching the wall behind him. "Bumped into something. Didn't feel like wood. I thought it moved when I hit it. Holy shit." He grimaced.
    The arm was sticking out of the edge of a steel door set into the corridor wall. The elbow was about three feet off the ground. The door was shut tight. Fingers clutched a small welding torch.
    Copper leaned close, examining the trapped limb.
    "Watch it, Doc," Macready warned him. "Might still be gas running to that sucker."
    "I don't think so." Copper indicated the torch controls. "The switch is in the on position, I think. I don't smell anything." He licked a finger, held it under the nozzle of the torch. "Nothing. Fuel burned or leaked out long ago."
    Macready tried the door. It was unlocked and unlike the previous two they'd had to wrestle with, this one opened easily. The arm dropped loosely to the floor. It wasn't attached to anything anymore, having been severed as well