sled he groped for the two harpoons.
"Edwardluk!" he shouted, and the vast emptiness of sea ice swallowed
his voice and returned like a false echo the grunting of the bear.
His hand gripped the harpoon shaft, best weapon for a blindman? To his own
surprise he laughed. A bit shrilly, but he laughed. Turning his head to
follow the piglike noises of the bear, he extended the harpoon. "Come on,
you invisible spook! I'm a man, not a seal."
His pounding heart, his surging adrenalin, had given him back his warmth,
his liveness. He laughed with surprise that he was not afraid. He felt
beyond fear. Much closer than before, the bear growled.
The dogs yelped, violently thrashing the anchored sled, concealing any
moving sounds of the bear.
In this uncertain moment as Dr. West continued to awaken, he reevaluated. These dogs are straining to escape. Escape is so simple! With this
intelligent realization, his atavistic flow of courage froze. With the
frightened gasps of a civilized man, Dr. West dropped the harpoon and
unsheathed his short-bladed skinning knife.
Of course the dogs will run, he thought. They'll drag the sled away,
carrying me.
The bear growled.
Tight-muscled with fright, Dr. West lurched along the straining sled,
fumbled back along the rail until his hand found the taut anchor strap.
His knife slashed.
The strap broke, the lunging dogs yanking the sled from under him.
He fell on his elbow on the ice, momentarily stunned by his stupidity,
as the clamor of the fleeing dog team faded into the distance.
So he couldn't escape, he thought, almost laughing with shock. Was he
predestined never to escape from the Eskimo Cultural Sanctuary?
"Edwardluk!" Dr. West started to rise and was warned by a cavernous growl.
He remained in a crouching posture, turning his head in the direction
from which the sound had emerged. He was facing upwind, and an odor like
rotten meat became noticeable, but now he couldn't hear the bear. The bear
must be motionless, staring at him.
Gradually, Dr. West sank down on the ice, his knife hand under his shoulder
as he flattened out on the ice, his vulnerable stomach pressed against
the ice, his legs pressed together, his shoulders hunched protectively
about his neck. His chest pressed against the ice, his heart thudding
against the ice. He could hear the hiss-hiss of its breathing, the bear's
shuffling advance.
Dr. West made no new attempts to open his eyes. He tried to see backward
into the fortress of his bachelor apartment in Berkeley. In stunned
amusement he thought: I can't die here with six months rent pre paid
there. To the right of its fieldstone fireplace, behind the multi-colored
medical books on the top shelf, he could almost see his .44 caliber magnum
Ruger Blackhawk revolver, a heavy hog leg single-action revolver with
gleaming thick cylinder stuffed with six bullets looking fat as thumbs.
Almost as if it were reality, his hand closed around -- emptiness.
The bear snorted. Motionless on the ice, Dr. West suppressed his breathing.
He remembered Alaskan Eskimo hunters laughing how they had behaved in such
situations. Prostrate before their bears, they had lived to joke.
"Don't breathe," those wizened Alaskan Eskimos advised; "bear never kills
dead man."
This polar bear's stench engulfed him. Above him poised the hiss-hiss
of its breathing. There was a gurgling sound, the ravenous contractions
of its digestive system.
As forcibly as the blunt end of a baseball bat, the polar bear nosed his
thigh, trying to turn him over.
Desperately, he wanted to lunge away, but he sagged limply because the
bear's quick paw would smash him like a seal if he moved.
He wanted to leap away with a nightmare shriek as the bear's nose
clubbed his thigh, his hip, shoving to turn him over, to expose his
vital belly. Stiffening, resisting, Dr. West tried to hold his
"Edwardluk!" he shouted, and the vast emptiness of sea ice swallowed
his voice and returned like a false echo the grunting of the bear.
His hand gripped the harpoon shaft, best weapon for a blindman? To his own
surprise he laughed. A bit shrilly, but he laughed. Turning his head to
follow the piglike noises of the bear, he extended the harpoon. "Come on,
you invisible spook! I'm a man, not a seal."
His pounding heart, his surging adrenalin, had given him back his warmth,
his liveness. He laughed with surprise that he was not afraid. He felt
beyond fear. Much closer than before, the bear growled.
The dogs yelped, violently thrashing the anchored sled, concealing any
moving sounds of the bear.
In this uncertain moment as Dr. West continued to awaken, he reevaluated. These dogs are straining to escape. Escape is so simple! With this
intelligent realization, his atavistic flow of courage froze. With the
frightened gasps of a civilized man, Dr. West dropped the harpoon and
unsheathed his short-bladed skinning knife.
Of course the dogs will run, he thought. They'll drag the sled away,
carrying me.
The bear growled.
Tight-muscled with fright, Dr. West lurched along the straining sled,
fumbled back along the rail until his hand found the taut anchor strap.
His knife slashed.
The strap broke, the lunging dogs yanking the sled from under him.
He fell on his elbow on the ice, momentarily stunned by his stupidity,
as the clamor of the fleeing dog team faded into the distance.
So he couldn't escape, he thought, almost laughing with shock. Was he
predestined never to escape from the Eskimo Cultural Sanctuary?
"Edwardluk!" Dr. West started to rise and was warned by a cavernous growl.
He remained in a crouching posture, turning his head in the direction
from which the sound had emerged. He was facing upwind, and an odor like
rotten meat became noticeable, but now he couldn't hear the bear. The bear
must be motionless, staring at him.
Gradually, Dr. West sank down on the ice, his knife hand under his shoulder
as he flattened out on the ice, his vulnerable stomach pressed against
the ice, his legs pressed together, his shoulders hunched protectively
about his neck. His chest pressed against the ice, his heart thudding
against the ice. He could hear the hiss-hiss of its breathing, the bear's
shuffling advance.
Dr. West made no new attempts to open his eyes. He tried to see backward
into the fortress of his bachelor apartment in Berkeley. In stunned
amusement he thought: I can't die here with six months rent pre paid
there. To the right of its fieldstone fireplace, behind the multi-colored
medical books on the top shelf, he could almost see his .44 caliber magnum
Ruger Blackhawk revolver, a heavy hog leg single-action revolver with
gleaming thick cylinder stuffed with six bullets looking fat as thumbs.
Almost as if it were reality, his hand closed around -- emptiness.
The bear snorted. Motionless on the ice, Dr. West suppressed his breathing.
He remembered Alaskan Eskimo hunters laughing how they had behaved in such
situations. Prostrate before their bears, they had lived to joke.
"Don't breathe," those wizened Alaskan Eskimos advised; "bear never kills
dead man."
This polar bear's stench engulfed him. Above him poised the hiss-hiss
of its breathing. There was a gurgling sound, the ravenous contractions
of its digestive system.
As forcibly as the blunt end of a baseball bat, the polar bear nosed his
thigh, trying to turn him over.
Desperately, he wanted to lunge away, but he sagged limply because the
bear's quick paw would smash him like a seal if he moved.
He wanted to leap away with a nightmare shriek as the bear's nose
clubbed his thigh, his hip, shoving to turn him over, to expose his
vital belly. Stiffening, resisting, Dr. West tried to hold his
Similar Books
