Bolan figured that if he cut the time by half and made the crossing alone in a single kayak, that would prove a sufficient test for his guts and his initiative. He would use an ULM only to ferry him from Egilsstadir, the nearest airfield, to the vast sinkhole in the ice that was the only entry to the source of the underground river.

Because he had to supervise the unloading of the crated ULM from the hold of the old 727 that had brought him from Denmark, and check out papers with the Icelandic customs, he had missed the airport bus that would have taken him to the city center.

When he was through, he walked out of the superheated, cigar-smelling terminal and crossed a paved sidewalk toward the steel-and-glass canopy sheltering the taxi stand.

No cabs.

He looked around him. A veil of high-flying cirrus hid the sun. Below the barren promontory on which the airfield was located, gray waves crumbled into dirty white foam as the wind whipped the surface of the sea. On the far side of the inlet, he could see the snowcapped mountains behind Reykjavik.

Behind him, there was one vehicle in the parking lot a dark blue Ford into which the customs and immigration officers were climbing. The vehicle bumped across the lot, turned through the gates and took the highway leading to Reykjavik. He went back into the terminal.

There was no one around. A group of geology students who had been on the plane had taken the bus into the city.

The 727 had left on the last leg of its flight to Scotland, carrying with it the few transit passengers who had been thronging the duty-free store in search of cheap whiskey and Brennavin, the pungent Icelandic liquor. Through the PA speakers a lone unaccompanied alto saxophone lamented the loneliness of man.