'I know, I know. But perhaps I can help with that. I am on the track of... something.'

'Of what?'

'You recall, I suggested you experiment with ice.'

'And we did try. But without appreciable success.'

There was a pause. Then: 'I think you will succeed. I hope to bring you what you need, or at least to be able to lead you to it.'

'Bring it?' Naryshkin frowned. 'You mean here? You are coming here to the Inst.i.tute.'

'Why not?' The deep voice laughed. 'After all, I must practically own the place by now. And if I wait much longer it may not be possible.'

'But, when?' His mind was racing. They would need to prepare a room, to arrange demonstrations of the work and progress so far.

'Soon. Very soon. But first,' the man at the other end of the phone said, 'I have some business to attend to here.'

41: Encampment

His name was Chedakin, and Fitz wondered if the man had ever been warm in his life. It was probably because he was so used to the cold that the guide did not shiver. He did not seem to need to rest either, but then he didn't have a huge pack to carry like the rest of them. Just a gnarled stick.

It was slow progress, knee*deep in snow, across the empty white s.p.a.ce. In the distance, through the haze and swirl of cold air, Fitz could make out low mountains rising up to meet a sky that seemed the mirror of the ground. The dogs pulling the sleigh had given up calling to each other. Their tails hung down, heavy with icicles as they battled through the snow drifts.

Chedakin was old. His beard was white and his skin drawn and translucent like parchment. It looked as frail and delicate. His clothes were thin and loose, layers of protection' against the cold that contrasted with the heavy coats of the expedition members. Fitz could imagine that beneath the cloth, his legs were as thin and gnarled and discoloured as the stick he carried. He spoke no English, and Gerhardt Graul struggled to cope with his thick accent and unfamiliar dialect.

'Remind me where we're going,' Fitz forced out through chattering teeth.

'The foothills,' George told him. 'There's an old castle where we can make camp. Rock formations. We should get there in a few days, if the weather holds.'

'And what was all that about stuff in the ice?'

'He has not seen them himself,' Graul shouted through the rising wind. 'In the ice, frozen deep. His father told him that his father had seen... something.'

'Wolves and tigers, probably,' Fitz muttered. 'And lost Siberian expeditions that didn't have the sense to give up and go home when the going got cold.'

Chedakin was talking again. Urging them on with a high*pitched keening encouragement that was intermittently broken up with lower, guttural sounds that might be words. Graul was shaking his head.

'Don't you understand him?' Galloway roared in annoyance.

'I understand his words,' Graul insisted. 'But they are meaningless.'

'I thought not,' Galloway said with evident contempt. He shouldered his way past Graul and pushed Chedakin roughly ahead of him.

'I say, steady on, old man,' Caversham called out. 'Can't afford to mistreat the guide, you know. He could lead us anywhere.'

'Tell me about it,' Fitz grumbled. As he spoke, his foot plunged deep into the snow, finding an invisible hollow and throwing him back into the crusty white landscape. It had happened to him and the others several times. He had learned the best thing was just to fall, not to waste energy trying to stop yourself. But once down, you needed help to get up again. Fitz lay there, on his back, the heavy rucksack holding him down firmly as if he weighed a ton, while his arms and legs flailed insect*like in the air.

A hand reached down and grabbed Fitz's wrist. He pulled and was soon upright again, staggering forward after the others. 'Thanks.'

It was Price. 'No problem.' He grinned and strode off, his long legs making the movement seem easy.

Fitz sighed and followed.

'Are you all right?' Graul asked as he drew level.

'I'm fine. Thanks. Just cold.' He slapped the German on the shoulder. 'Don't worry about Galloway,' he said. 'He p.i.s.ses us all off.'

Graul frowned. 'Sorry?'

'Colloquialism. It means we heartily respect and endorse his opinion in all things.' Fitz grinned widely, feeling the skin of his cheeks crack.

Graul frowned again. Then he too grinned as he understood. 'p.i.s.ses us off,' he murmured. 'Yes, I like that.'

They were at the back of the group now. Even the dogs were ahead of them, dipping in and out of the snow as they bounded forwards in slow motion.

'So what did the old fellow say?' Fitz asked.

'I do not know what he meant,' Graul said. 'But his words were plain enough. He was describing the place where he says there is something frozen in the ice.'

'Let me guess, it's cold and it's white.'

Graul nodded with amus.e.m.e.nt. 'And he said it is near the place where the worlds meet the place where the worlds meet.'

'What does that mean?'

Graul shrugged. 'I asked him that. He said his people call it the "window into otherness". They keep away from there, he says. He told me that he himself believes it is a doorway that leads to the land of the dead.'

The mountains were far larger by the time the team reached the foothills. Caversham found a hollow area that gave some shelter, and Galloway agreed they should make their camp there. The snow had drifted in, but areas of the hollow were clear, the rock*strewn frozen wound showing through like bald patches on the landscape.

'We'll aim to be at this castle place within the week,' Galloway informed them all. 'Make that our base of operations. It sounds like it's pretty close to the sorts of things we're after.'

George, standing at the back of the group with Fitz, snorted in annoyance and frustration. 'Sorts of things,' he muttered, just loud enough for Fitz to hear. 'This was supposed to be a properly planned scientific expedition with defined objectives.'

Fitz smiled, then turned to see that Galloway's small, dark eyes were fixed on him and George. 'If you gentlemen have any contribution to make, I think we'd all be grateful if you would do us the courtesy of saying it aloud rather than mumbling away at the back there.'

'Oh we were just agreeing that that's the best plan,' Fitz said quickly, before George could respond.

'Yes,' Galloway said slowly. 'I imagined it was something of the sort.' His tone left no doubt that in fact he had imagined nothing of the sort. 'Mr Price, will you get the tents unloaded please.'

The previous night, only Price had been able to hammer the tent pegs in. Now even he seemed unable to penetrate the frozen ground. Fitz held a sharp wooden tent peg at arm's length, his face turned away and his teeth bared and gritted as Price thumped down at it with a heavy lump*hammer. The peg bounced in Fitz's hands, almost breaking free of his grip. He let go of it, and it toppled over.

'This is hopeless,' Fitz said. Price nodded, without comment.

'Have you not got those tents up yet?' Galloway's Scottish accent cut through the cold air. He was standing on a raised area at the side of the hollow behind Price, surveying the lengths of canvas and the tent pegs and guy ropes that were laid out across the ground. 'My Aunt Sally could have pitched this camp by now,' he added with a sneer as he stood over them, hands on his hips.

'We've cleared the snow,' Price said. 'And the rocks.'

'Oh, well that's bully for you, that is. But could I just suggest that we might like to sleep inside the tents tonight. And it'll be a sight easier to get them up before the sun sets behind these hills.' He emphasised 'hills' as if to make the point that they were not mountains to a veteran like himself.

Fitz threw down the tent peg and stood up. 'And could I just suggest that since the ground is frozen solid, probably to a depth of about half a mile, that there is no way we are going to get the pegs in. No way the tents are going up. And there is no way that your shouting and demanding and generally arsing around is going to help matters.' He was shaking, and not entirely with the cold.

'Is that so, laddie?' Galloway asked, apparently amused.

'I am not "laddie",' Fitz shouted back. He could feel Price's hand on his shoulder, holding him back, calming him down.

'Oh, aren't you?' Galloway's voice was quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Fitz could see George and Caversham edging closer, listening. But Galloway's words held the majority of his attention: 'Then what are are you, may I ask? Inexperienced, unqualified, and unable to knock in a tent peg, it would seem.' you, may I ask? Inexperienced, unqualified, and unable to knock in a tent peg, it would seem.'

'You have a go,' Fitz said. 'If you think you're hard enough,' he added under his breath. He picked up the tent peg from the ground in front of him and lobbed it to Galloway, In his anger he misjudged the throw, and the wooden peg flew over Galloway's shoulder, almost hitting him in the face.

'That's right,' Galloway shouted back, his face darkening behind his beard. 'Resort to violence. After all, you haven't the brains to argue sensibly, have you? You and that great lunk with you.' He nodded at Price, and Fitz heard the big man take a breath of surprise and anger.

But Galloway was still speaking. 'At least he can fetch and carry and follow simple instructions. What are you good for, eh, laddie laddie? Why are you here, except to make work for the rest of us? Mr Last*in*line, that's you. You're always last up in the morning, always at the back of the group, always joking and malarking about with your posh friend there.' He nodded at George, who was now standing beside Fitz. 'And now you complain because you haven't the strength to knock in a tent peg. Well, I'm not surprised. I doubt if you've done a day's real work in your life. Laddie.'

'I am not "laddie",' Fitz repeated. He could feel his blood beginning to boil despite the cold. 'And you've no call to speak to Price like that. He does more work than the rest of us put together, and you know it.'

He took a step towards Galloway, and for a moment he thought he saw the man's expression falter, a slight widening of the eyes, a hint of anxiety. And that made Fitz feel good. His hands were balled into fists at his sides and he could feel a nerve ticking under his left eye.

But then the moment was gone. Caversham was stepping in front of him, voice quiet and calm and reasonable. 'The ground's frozen solid,' he said to Galloway. 'There's no way any of us will get the pegs into it, and it isn't fair to chastise Fitz or Price here for that, you know.'

Galloway c.o.c.ked his head to one side. 'The great explorer speaks,' he said mockingly. 'And I suppose you have a suggestion? Some plan gleaned from your own wealth of experience no doubt. Patches of oil burning to soften the soil maybe? Or should we all lie down and breath heavily on it perhaps?'

'We use rocks,' Caversham said simply, annoyance evident in his tone.

Galloway blinked. 'Rocks?'

'Yes, rocks.'

Galloway still looked blank.

But Fitz had realised what Caversham was saying. When they had scooped away most of the snow, they had also shifted the rocks those they could prise free from the frozen ground. There was a pile of them, heavy and ragged, at the side of the hollow where Price had managed to lug them. 'I get it. We tie the guy ropes to heavy rocks and anchor the tents that way.'

Caversham turned, and smiled at Fitz. 'You've got it. Interesting,' he added loudly, 'that Mr Last*in*line cottons on quicker than our ill.u.s.trious leader.' He winked at Fitz. 'I'll give you a hand.'

Over Caversham's shoulder, Fitz could see Galloway. His eyes were wide and his face almost as red as his beard. 'Now, see here,' he spluttered. But he seemed unable to get any more words out.

'We're busy,' Price told him as he hefted a small boulder from the pile. 'Either help, or get out of the way.'

It was, Fitz thought, the most that he had heard Price say in one go. And as with everything the man said, it was clear and to the point and it brooked no argument.

40: Under the Hammer

Good as his word, Lionel Correll had reserved a seat in the front row for the Doctor. He stood politely as the Doctor arrived and they shook hands.

'Problem?' Correll asked. He could not fail to notice that the Doctor was looking round, distracted.

'No, no. This is fine, thank you.'

'But you'd rather sit somewhere else?'

'No, really.' The Doctor smiled and sat down. 'If we were at the back, we might have a better chance of spotting whoever is selling the journal.'

'You think they'll be here?'

'Oh, I'm sure of it.'

'You want to move?' Correll asked again.

'No. You can't see people's faces from behind them. So perhaps this is best. Faces can tell you a lot, you know.'

'Yes.' Correll said, aware that the Doctor was examining his own face, though he had no idea what he might be hoping to discover from it. 'Once they resume, there are a couple of lots before the journal. So you'll have plenty of time to have a snoop at the other people.'

'Excellent.' The Doctor rubbed his hands together eagerly, and turned his chair slightly so it was easier to look back over his shoulder at the other people in the auction room.

The auctioneer was neat and proper in his immaculate dark suit and white shirt. His tie was austere without being sombre. 'Lot forty*nine is of historical rather than intrinsic value,' he said, his voice as stiff and proper as his attire. 'The journal for the Hanson Galloway Siberian expedition of 1894. Previously thought to have been lost without trace, it is being sold off today by... a respected client.' He raised an eyebrow and surveyed the audience.

The Doctor twisted in his seat and also surveyed the audience. 'Definitely here, he's being deferential,' he hissed. Correll watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as the Doctor mirrored the auctioneer. The Doctor grinned back at him as he returned his attention to the podium.

'I apologise for the fact that no prior viewing was allowed for this item, but you will appreciate that a large part of its value derives from the mystique of the object and the fact that it has never before been seen except by the present owner and her family.'

'Aha,' the Doctor whispered loudly. 'It's a woman!'

Correll could see that the auctioneer had heard him. A moment of embarra.s.sment crossed his face and his jaw went slack. His eyes darted towards the back of the room. Correll looked back at the Doctor and could see that he too had noted the unconscious glance at the seller or her representative.

The Doctor grinned back. He made no effort to turn this time. 'Old white*haired lady in the tiara,' he murmured so quietly that Correll was surprised he could hear at all. 'Third row from the back, on the end.' Had he memorised the entire audience and been able to deduce where the auctioneer was looking? Having realised that the Doctor had managed to trick the man into giving away his client with nothing more than a stage whisper, Correll decided that anything was possible.

Even so, he wasn't prepared for what the Doctor did next. He put his hand up, innocent and wide*eyed naive. Like a schoolboy who needs to be excused.

'I haven't started taking bids yet, sir,' the auctioneer informed him with a smile that was almost a smirk.

'I just wanted to say,' the Doctor told him in a clear and loud voice, 'that it isn't actually the entire entire journal. Is it.' journal. Is it.'