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Now he had an answer； but it was only half an answer。 Which way was north？ Even if he knew for certain； he had no means to follow it along a straight line。
The accepted fact that a man who was right…handed would eventually make a great arc to his right without any landmarks to guide him； came back to haunt Pitts thoughts。
The whine of the jet engines interrupted his reverie and he looked up； holding his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the cobalt blue sky； sighting a mercial airliner cruising serenely ahead of its long white contrails。 Pitt could only wonder at the aircraft's course。
It could have been heading anywhere： west to Reykjavik； east to Norway； southeast to London。 There was no way to tell for certain unless he had a pass。
A pass； the word lingered in his mind； savored like the thought of an ice…cold beer by a man dying of thirst in the middle of the Mojave Desert。 A pass； a simple piece of magnetic iron mounted on a pivot and floating in a mixture of glycerin and water。 Then a light suddenly clicked on deep in the recesses of his brain。 A long…forgotten bit of outdoor lore he'd learned many years before during a four…day hike in the Sierras with his old Boy Scout troop began to break through the fog…shrouded barrier of time。
It took him nearly ten minutes of searching before he found a small pool of water trapped in a shallow depression beneath a dome…shaped hill。 Quickly； as dexterously as his raw and bleeding fingers would allow； Pitt unclasped the brown sash and tore off the pin that held it in place。 Wrapping one end of the long silk material around his knee； he knelt and pulled it taut with his left hand and with his right began stroking the pin from head to tip in a single direction against the silk； building friction and magnetizing the tiny piece of metal。
The cold was increasing now； creeping into his 。sweat…soaked clothes and forcing a spasm of shivers to grip his body。 The pin slipped through his fingers； and he spent useless minutes probing the mossy ground cover until he discovered the little silver sliver by accidentally running it a quarter of an inch under a fingernail。
He was almost thankful for the pain； as it meant there was still feeling in his hands。 He kept pushing the pin back and forth across the silk； careful not to let it slip through his fingers again。
When he felt satisfied that further friction would add nothing more； he rubbed the pin over his forehead and nose； covering it with as much skin oil as it could hold。 Then he took two slender bits of thread from the lining of his red jacket and doubled them loosely around the pin。 The tricky part of the operation was yet to e； so Pitt relaxed for a moment flexing his fingers and massaging them much like a piano player preparing to tackle Chopin's Minute Waltz。
Feeling he was ready； he gingerly picked up the two loops and with painstaking slowness lowered the pin into the calm little pond。 Holding a deep breath； Pitt watched the water bend under the weight of the metal。 Then ever so gently his fingers cautiously slid the threads apart until the pin swam by itself； kept afloat by the oil and the surface tension of the water。
Only a child at Christmastime； staring wide…eyed at an array of gifts under the tree； could have experienced the same feeling of wonder that Pitt did that moment as he sat entranced and watched that crazy little pin swing leisurely in a half circle until its head pointed toward magnetic north。 He sat there unmoving for a full three minutes； staring at his makeshift pass； almost afraid that if he blinked his eyes； it would sink and disappear。
〃Let's see your goddamned puter e up with that one；〃 Pitt murmured to the empty air。
A tenderfoot might have impatiently started running in the direction the pin pointed； mistaken in the assumption that a pass always faithfully aims its point toward true north。 Pitt knew that the only place where a pass would unerringly indicate the North Pole was a small area in the Great Lakes between the United States and Canada where by chance the North and Magnetic Poles e into line。 As an experienced navigator； he was also aware that the Magnetic Pole lay somewhere beneath Prince of Wales Island above Hudson Bay； approximately one thousand miles below the Arctic Pole and only a few hundred miles above Iceland。 That meant that the pin was pointing a few degrees north of west。 Pitt figured his pass declination at about eighty degrees； a rough guess at best； but at least he was certain that north now stood at a near right angle to the head of the pin。
Pitt took his bearing and picked the rudimentary pass needle Out of the water and started walking into the mist。 He hadn't covered a hundred yards when he could taste the blood springing from the open cuts on his inner lips； the teeth loosened in his gums； and with all he had already suffered； the pain inaugurated by Rondheim's kick to the groin； which made it impossible for him to walk without …a heavy limping gait。 He forced himself to keep going； to cling tenaciously to the thread Of consciousness。 The ground was rough and uneven and he soon lost count of the number of times he stumbled and fell； wrapping his arms around his chest in a vain attempt to deaden the torture from the cracked ribs。
Luck stayed with him and the mist disappeared after an hour and a half； offering him a chance to take advantage of the many hot springs he passed and orient his bearings with the pass pin。 Now he could line up a landmark to the north and keep shifting from one landmark to the next until he was sure he was straying。
Then he would stop and take another pass reading and begin the process over again。
Two hours became three。 Three hours became four。 Each minute was an infinite unit of misery and suffering of aching cold； of intense burning pain； of fighting for control of his mind。 Time。 melted into an eternity which Pitt knew might not end until he fell against the soft； damp grass for the last time。 In spite of his determination； he began to have doubts that he would live through the next few hours。
One step in front of the other； an endless cycle that slowly pushed Pitt further and further into total exhaustion。 His thoughts had no room now for anything but the next landmark； and when he reached it； he concentrated every ounce of his sinking energy on the next one。 Logic was nearly nonexistent。 Only when he heard a muted alarm going off somewhere in the dim corners of his brain； warning him that he was straying off course； did he stop at a steaming sulfur pool to regain a heading with his pass。
Even twelve hours ago to Pitt seemed like twelve years； then his reflexes had been razor…edged； honed and pointed for any necessary mental mand； but now as he set the pin in the water his trembling hands failed him and the ingenious little pass supped beneath the surface and shot to the bottom of the deep crystal…clear pool。 Pitt had time to grab it before it sank out of reach； but he could only sit there and stare transfixed for wasted seconds before he reacted to the setback。 Then it was too late； far too late； for his hope for finding his