At a price, of course. But Duncan was ready to pay that price. His gray eyes were savage as he marched on, staggering sometimes, snow crusting on his lashes so that he could scarcely see.
So well was the plane camouflaged that he almost lurched into the white hull before he realized that he had reached the end of the march. Sudden weakness overtook Duncan, and he found it difficult to move the few steps to the cabin’s door. He pounded on the alloy with fists that had no feeling.
There was a click, and the panel slid open, letting a gust of warm air play about Duncan’s cheeks.
Brent Olcott stood there, tall, dark-haired and arrogantly handsome. He was a big man, like Duncan, but so well proportioned that his movements were tigerishly graceful. His teeth flashed under a well-kept mustache as he extended a hand.
It was impossible to speak above the gale’s shriek. Not till the panel had been shut, cutting off the uproar, did Olcott say tersely, “Glad you made it, Duncan. I didn’t count on a storm like this.”
“I made it. That’s the important part.” It was difficult to articulate with almost frozen lips. Olcott looked at him sharply.
“Frost-bite? Can’t have that. Strip down and rub yourself with that.” He nodded toward an auto-refrigerated bucket of chopped ice on a shelf. “If we’re ordered down, I’ve a secret compartment you can slide into. Crowded quarters, but you won’t be found there. Now—” He turned to the controls as Duncan, shivering, peeled off his wet garments.
It was a difficult take-off, despite the triple-powered motor. Only a gyro-equipped plane could have made it. The ship lurched and rocked dangerously in the blast.
Duncan fought his way beside Olcott. “Got rockets?”