Free Night Without End by Alistair MacLean

off." 
         
         The silence that followed could hardly be described as companionable, and I rushed in quickly. 
         
         "My own name is Mason, Peter Mason, and I'm in charge of this IGY station. You all know roughly what we're doing stuck out here on the plateau - meteorology, glaciology, the study of the earth's magnetism, the borealis, airglow, ionosphere, cosmic rays, magnetic storms and a dozen other things which I suppose are equally uninteresting to you." I waved my arm. "We don't, as you can see, normally live here alone. Five others are away to the north on a field expedition. They're due back in about three weeks, after which we all pack up and abandon this place before the winter sets in and the ice-pack freezes on the coast." 
         
         "Before the winter sets in?" The little man in the Glenurquhart jacket stared at me. "You mean to tell me it gets colder than this?" 
         
         "It certainly does. An explorer called Alfred Wegener wintered not fifty miles from here in 1930-1, and the temperature dropped by 85 degrees below zero - 117 degrees of frost. And that may have been a warm winter, for all we know." 
         
         I gave some time to allow this cheering item of information to sink in, then continued. 
         
         "Well, that's us. Miss LeGarde - Marie LeGarde - needs no introduction from anyone." A slight murmur of surprise and turning of heads showed that I wasn't altogether right. "But that's all I know, I'm afraid." 
         
         "Corazzini," the man with the cut brow offered. The white bandage, just staining with blood, was in striking contrast to the receding dark hair. "Nick Corazzini. Bound for Bonnie Scotland, as the travel posters put it." 
         
         "Holiday?" 
         
         "No luck." He grinned. "Taking over the new Global Tractor Company outside Glasgow. Know it?" 
         
         "I've heard of it. Tractors, eh? Mr Corazzini, you may be worth your weight in gold to us yet. We have a broken-down elderly tractor outside that can usually only be started by repeated oaths and assaults by a four-pound hammer." 
         
         "Well." He seemed taken aback. "Of course, I can try-" 
         
         "I don't suppose you've actually laid a finger on a tractor for many years," Marie LeGarde interrupted shrewdly. "Isn't that it, Mr Corazzini?" 
         
         "Afraid it is," he admitted ruefully. "But in a situation like this I'd gladly lay my hands on another one." 
         
         "You'll have your chance," I promised him. I looked at the man beside him. 
         
         "Smallwood," the minister announced. He rubbed his thin white hands constantly to drive the cold away. "The Reverend Joseph Smallwood. I'm the Vermont delegate to the international General Assembly of the Unitarian and Free United Churches in London. You may have heard of it - our biggest conference in many years?" 
         
         "Sorry." I shook my head. "But don't let that disturb you. Our paper boy misses out occasionally. And you, sir?" 
         
         "Solly Levin. Of New York City," the little man in the check jacket added unnecessarily. He reached up and laid a proprietary arm along the broad shoulders of the young man beside him. "And this is my boy, Johnny." 
         
         "Your boy? Your son?" I fancied I could see a slight resemblance. 
         
         "Perish the thought," the young man drawled. "My name is Johnny Zagero. Solly is my manager. Sorry to introduce a discordant note into company such as this" - his eyes swept over us, dwelt significantly longer on the expensive young lady by his side -"but I'm in the way of being a common or garden pugilist. That means 'boxer', Solly." 
         
         "Would you listen to him?" Solly Levin implored. He stretched his clenched fists heavenwards. "Would you just listen to him? 'pologisin'.