
But he hadn't. I was prone to the frozen snow again, ear pressed hard against it, and I could half hear, half feel, a kind of hissing tremor which could only have come from the fuselage, no doubt already splintered and ripped, sliding over the ice, gouging a furrowed path through it. How long this sound continued, I couldn't be sure—six seconds, perhaps eight. And then, all at once, came another earth tremor, severer by far than the first, and I heard clearly, even above the gale, the sudden sharp sound of the crash, the grinding tearing scream of metal being twisted and tortured out of shape. And then, abruptly, silence—a silence deep and still and ominous, and the sound of the wind in the darkness was no sound at all.
Shakily, I rose to my feet. It was then I realised for the first time that I had lost my snow-mask—it must have ripped off as I had rolled along the ground. I brought out my torch from under my parka—it was always kept there as even a dry battery could freeze and give no light at all if the temperature fell low enough—and probed around in the darkness. But there was no sign of it, the wind could have carried it a hundred yards away by this time. A bad business, indeed, but there was no help for it. I didn't like to think what my face would be like by the time I arrived back at the cabin.
