The black machine, its fat belly emphasised by orange paint, came closer. The colours gave it away: black and red, seen easiest against the ice. She was intended to operate over ice.

" She's a whale-spotter," I said.

Sailhardy jerked his head upwards. " I'd say it was fairly calm still at five thousand feet. Won't be for long, though."

" That's a damn brave pilot," I said. " I wouldn't care to fly in this lot, even if it is clearer farther up." The helicopter manoeuvred. It was clear it had not seen the whaleboat.

" She's searching," I said, puzzled. " It can't be for whales.

No factory-ship skipper would fly off an aircraft in weather like this."

Sailhardy was anxious. " Any moment the storm will hit us. Then I don't give a fig for our chances or the helicopter's." The machine's movement became decisive. She started to drop towards the whaleboat. The pilot had seen us.

" It couldn't be searching for us," I started to say. "There were no ships at Tristan when we left the anchorage this morning."

Sailhardy reached out and scratched the head of the strange bird. " Whatever that aircraft is about, this chick certainly brought us luck," he smiled.

" We haven't been rescued yet," I said. "Look at the sea. It's one thing to have a helicopter overhead, and another to pull you up from a swell like this."

He nodded. " We're rising and falling forty feet at a time," he said. " I reckon it can't be done." As if to refute him, the machine came down with a rush directly over our heads. Its rotors drowned speech. From a winch on its side, a rope snaked down. The pilot's judgement was superb. The rope was about three feet above the boat but slightly to one side. Before I had time to grab it, we nose-dived into the trough. The helicopter waited. We shot upwards with the next sea. My heart was in my mouth. I thought the sea would touch the Westland. I saw the pilot behind perspex. There was a rapid movement of the controls. The machine edged out of reach.