Slightly bruised and shaken, we climbed out, but that's all. The pilot got out his torch and we clustered about a map he spread on the ground.
"This is where we are." He indicated a spot bare of all place names and west of the area in which Chetzisky was reported. In case of an air search this would be the last bit of terrain searched. It was far off our expected course. I recalled the story of the transport lost these ten years in this wilderness and unpleasant tingling crept up my spine.
Then I remembered Chetzisky and realized with a sour humor that worrying about time in terms of years was optimistic. Time now was only a matter of three days.
And moping like this wouldn't add to them.
"Check the radio," I snapped, turning to the pilot; "see if you can raise Burns Lake."
He climbed back into the plane. The lights went on; at least, they still worked. I turned to Johnny Eagle, "You better get the sleeping bags out and turn in yourself. There's nothing to be done till morning."
I got in the plane.
"Any chance of fixing it?" I asked, watching the pilot's frantic flickering of switches.
"I'm trying to. It may only be a case of a broken tube from the jolt we had. If so, we're all right; I have a few spares."
I stayed up all night with him. A damp, pallid dawn filtered through a ceiling of clouds, their gray bellies heavy against the tops of the evergreen timber.