Argosy (UK), January 1955 — page 42: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

40 TOM HOPKINSON froze to death must be remote. At such a moment, an omen of any kind assumes importance—as any deep-sea fisherman well knows. However, his natural annoyance at having his hand forced by Aimo was now backed by a reluctance, the reluctance of civilized man to believe in any form of knowledge that isn’t listed on his own card-index. Garrod felt instinctively that to abandon this plan would be a contravention of his whole scheme of life, a denial of the authority of modern science, by one branch of which he made his living. “I’m damned if I’ll take advice from any reindeer,” he told himself, put his pack on his back, shook hands formally with Tania and the grandmother, patted the children’s heads, and started off. _ He realized as he did so that it was Christmas Eve. _ All Garrod had to do now, he told himself, was to steer through the forest for a mile or two, keeping the white blanket which was a lake upon his right, and at a certain point he’d be bound to cross the track leading to Ivalo—which is exactly what he did, only he crossed it without knowing that he’d done so. At any rate, after travelling for half an hour, he realized he’d gone wrong, and turned; luckily he had his own ski-marks to follow. This time, watching more carefully for an opening, he recog- nized the track but with a shock at how much narrower it seemed than he remembered it. They’d followed along so easily when coming that it had grown almost to a roadway in his mind. It was far from that, a mere path between the trees, and he was relieved to find that the impression of their skis on the out- ward journey was still discernible underneath the powder— though a fresh fall of snow or an hour’s strong wind would alter that. Garrod shook himself, took a look at the stars to memorize his direction, and set out for Ivalo. Mile after mile the stunted spruce and birch trees lined the way, with no variation but the snow-covered flats. Garrod felt like an insect travelling between rows of print on a white page; the book went on for ever, chapter after chapter, till at last he had really no idea whether he was coming or going. He simply trudged, slid when a gentle incline offered, and trudged again. He’d been trudging for about three hours by his watch, when the moon started to become obscured. At first it was mere wisps of cloud; after they passed, she shone bright as before. comiclooks.comn