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up the rear.
    The bear loped across the strand and skidded onto the pack ice, making for the nearest water, a dark hole that was perhaps ten or twelve feet in diameter. He plunged in and disappeared from view as the dogs went after him closely followed by Desforge, the hunters some little way behind.
    I shouted a warning, but Desforge took no notice and started across the ice to where the dogs ringed the hole howling furiously. A moment later it happened—one of the oldest tricks in the book. The bear sounded, striking out furiously with both paws, erupting from the water and falling across the thin ice with his whole weight. A spider’s web of cracks appeared that widened into deep channels as he struck again.
    The hunters had paused on the shore, calling to the dogs to come back. Most of them managed it safely, yelping like puppies, tails between their legs, but three or four tumbled into the water to be smashed into bloody pulp within seconds as the bear surged forward again.
    Desforge was no more than ten or twelve feet away and he hurled the harpoon, losing his balance at the samemoment and slipping to one knee. It caught the bear high up in the right side and he gave a roar like distant thunder and reared up out of the broken ice, smashing the haft of the harpoon with a single blow.
    Desforge turned and started back, but he was too late. Already a dark line was widening between him and the shore and a moment later he was waist-deep and floundering desperately in the soft slush. The bear went after him like an express train.
    Desforge was no more than four or five yards away from the shore as I burst through the line of hunters and raised the Winchester. There was time for just one shot and as the bear reared up above him I squeezed the trigger and the heavy bullet blew off the top of its head. It went down like a tower falling, blood and brains scattering across the ice and Desforge fell onto his hands and knees on the shore.
    He lay there for a moment as the hunters rushed forward to catch the carcase before it went under the ice. When I dropped to one knee beside him he grinned up at me, the teeth very white in the iron-grey beard as he wiped blood from his forehead with the back of one hand.
    â€œI always did like to do my own stuntwork.”
    â€œA great script,” I said. “What are you going to call the film—Spawn of the North?”
    â€œWe could have got some good footage there,” he said seriously as I pulled him to his feet.
    They hauled the bear on to the shore and the headman pulled out the broken shaft of Desforge’s harpoon andcame towards us. He spoke to me quickly in Eskimo and I translated for Desforge.
    â€œHe says that by rights the bear is yours.”
    â€œAnd how in the hell does he make that out?”
    â€œThe harpoon pierced a lung. He’d have died for sure.”
    â€œWell that’s certainly good news. Presumably we’d have gone to the great hereafter together.”
    â€œThey want to know if you’d like the skin.”
    â€œWhat would be the point? Some careless bastard seems to have ruined the head. Tell them they can have it.”
    I nodded to the headman who smiled with all the delight of a child and called to his friends. They formed a circle and shuffled round, arms linked, wailing in chorus.
    â€œNow what?” Desforge demanded.
    â€œThey’re apologising to the bear for having killed him.”
    His head went back and he laughed heartily, the sound of it echoing flatly across the water. “If that don’t beat all. Come on, let’s get out of here before I go nuts or freeze to death or something,” and he turned and led the way back along the shore.
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    When we reached the whaleboat he got in and rummaged for a blanket in the stern locker while I pushed off. By the time I’d clambered in after him and got the engine started, he had the blanket round his shoulders and was extracting the cork from a