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Admiral. ‘This is what Ah want. Ah’ve had a wee bit o’ luck, see. Ah’ve won the pools, got mesel’ a bloody great cheque, an’ now the house Ah live in is inundated wi’ beggin’ letters, postbags of it, all the usual charity professionals trying to get their snoots in the trough, an’ callers too, a lot o’ no-good villains an’ half the dropouts an’ cranks in Britain. First thing Ah got was an incinerator. Ah burn the lot in the backyard. Ah know what Ah want, see. The reason Ah’m here is that Ah asked the OYC – that’s the Ocean Youth Club, Ah sailed on one o’ their boats once – an’ they suggested Ah contact the World Ship Trust.’
    The words poured out of him, a dam breaking. ‘It’s no’ the ship Ah’m interested in. It’s the excitement, the sense o’ somethin’ worth while. Ah wanted somethin’ Ah’d have to fight fur, somethin’ that’d take me sailin’ half across the world. And then –’ He turned his head, smiling suddenly, his eyes gleaming – ‘Then Ah saw Mrs Sunderby’s ad, in one o’ the yachtin’ mags. She wanted crew fur this Antarctic ship search, crew that could pay their way an’ contribute to the cost. So here Ah am.’ He had turned back to the Admiral. ‘Me condition stands. If Ah finance the expedition, then they got to take me wi’ them. Understand’?’
    There was a sudden silence round the table, the young Scotsman and the grey-haired Admiral staring at each other. Finally the Admiral said very quietly, ‘I’ve never been to the Antarctic, but as a youngster I was on an Arctic exercise. We were marooned in the ice for two weeks. I know what it’s like. You don’t. Fitness is everything. And if we support Mrs Sunderby’s expedition –’
    â€˜ My expedition,’ the other cut in harshly. ‘If Ah’m payin’ fur it, then it’s my expedition. The Iain Ward Antarctic Ship Search. That’s what it’ll be called.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘Ye got yer place in history, sir. Ah want mine. Even if it kills me. See.’
    â€˜And if it kills the others?’ The Admiral paused, the grey eyes hard as they stared at Ward. ‘How would you feel then?’ And he added, his words coming slowly so that they carried weight, ‘Speaking for the Museum, I cannot agree to supporting an expedition that’s saddled with a fundamental weakness.’
    â€˜Meanin’ this?’ Ward patted the gloved right hand.
    â€˜Yes. Meaning just that.’
    â€˜And that’s yer only objection?’ Ward’s face was flushed. ‘Ye’re goin’ to damn the whole thin’ just because o’ me participation, wi’out the slightest knowledge o’ what the poor wee hand God gave me can doe, wi’out even botherin’ to test it out?’ He scrambled out of his seat, came round to where Victor Wellington was seated opposite the Admiral. ‘Shift over, will ye.’ His gloved hand reached out, fastening on the man’s shoulder and pulling him sideways. Then, bending to avoid the deck beams, he scrambled out of his jacket, sliding his long body into the space that had been made for him. ‘Right.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal a withered claw of a hand set high up on the arm, wrist and elbow seemingly all one, the joint merging into the muscles that bulged below the shoulder. The hand was fastened round a plastic grip that activated the artificial hand through a bright metal connecting arm. ‘Now, ye just take hold o’ me artificial paw an’ we’ll test it out, ye an’ me, an’ Ah’ll bet ye a fiver ye’ve no’ the grip or the muscles Ah’ve got.’
    The Admiral hesitated, staring at the withered mockery of a hand and the gloved fingers that had opened ready to clasp his own.