By Marcus O. Durham, PhD, Rosemary Durham
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But in truth there was so much to carry that Fitz doubted it saved much effort having him there. The huge man probably ate so much that he doubled the supplies they needed. So Fitz’s enthusiasm and excitement had waned as the cold increased. And now he was lying inside a small tent on rocky frozen ground in the coldest place on Earth. A candle afforded him precious little light and less heat. His toes had gone a colour that scared him, though to be fair he had not dared to take his boots off for three days and from the numbness there was a real chance they had actually dropped off anyway.
A sailing ship, all silver and gold. There was rigging, a figurehead, polished wooden decking, and of course a clock face. How long had it taken some craftsman to make that, he wondered. Some talented craftsman had laboured over it for years. Spending so much of his time making a clock – there was irony for you. The Doctor smiled thinly as he realised what he was thinking. At least the craftsman had achieved something, a little of him lived on in his creation. And here he was, criticising the poor man as he watched the seconds pass him by.
Naryshkin sighed. ‘I have told you before, sir. Money is not a problem. We have everything we need. Only a major breakthrough. . ’ ‘I know, I know. But perhaps I can help with that. I am on the track of. . ’ ‘And we did try. ’ There was a pause. Then: ‘I think you will succeed. ’ Naryshkin frowned. ‘You mean – here?