fter
the great black bodies ahead.

Aware that some strange enemy was on their track, the killers had become
panicky and were darting away at their full speed, which was only
slightly under that of the torpoon's humming motors, and which at times
even surpassed it. Ken saw that it looked like a long chase, and settled
his lean body as comfortably as he could.

His mind was not concentrated on the task ahead, for the first part was
mere routine and he could follow his quarry almost mechanically. And so,
as his steel shell drove through the ever-shadowed, icy sea, he began to
think about the disappearance of Chan Beddoes, the _Narwhal's_ second
torpooner.

Dead, now Beddoes; it was a week since he had set out on the chase from
which he had never returned. Ken could only conjecture as to what had
stricken him down. There were countless possibilities: perhaps a blow
from a dying killer whale's flukes bursting his torpoon's seams; perhaps
a crash into underwater ice. Whatever it was, it had been sudden, for
not even a faint radioed S.O.S. had trembled into the ear-phones of the
_Narwhal's_ radio-man. For two days they had held hopes that the second
torpooner still lived, as the sea-suit stored in each torp contained
air-units sufficient for thirty-six hours. But a whole week's passing
told them that that vast stretch of glacial sea was now Chan Beddoes'
grave.

Ken's reflections brought an urge to get the present job over with as
quickly as possible. He squeezed another ounce of speed from the
torpoon, taxing it to the limit and setting up a slight vibration; then
he fondled the nitro-shell gun's trigger and studied the huge fish
bodies ahead.

"Seems as if they're going to run forever," he muttered indignantly.
"We'll be to the Pole if they keep it up!"

* * * * *

Already the _Narwhal_ was miles behind. Through the torp's vision-plate
a scene of ever increasing mystery and gloom met his gaze. The killers'
course had brought them beneath a wide sheet of ice, apparently, for
there were no more columns of pale sunlight piercing through. The
quarter-light monotone was unbroken, save by deeper drifts of shadow,
and as he drummed through it the torpooner wondered at its lifelessness.
He discerned no more of the ghostly fish-schools that usually abounded.
Some enemy possibly had driven them from the region; but not the whale
he was pursuing, for they scorned such fare.

He was scanning the sur