Declare

vertical series of bursts of white spray from the glacier face and then expended themselves away among the higher ravines as the helicopter, its guns still chattering in the thin air, disappeared with a roar over the mountain shoulder.
    It had been one of the new French Aerospatiale Alouettes, and before it disappeared Hale had seen the fasces tubes of rocket launchers slung under the fuselage.
    Why hadn’t they fired the rockets?
    Probably they would on their next pass.
    In her earphones the pilot was angrily demanding an explanation for Elena’s abrupt order to veer east.
    She ignored him and clung to a stanchion on the port bulkhead, staring through eyes blinded with tears at the two accusing red lights on the armament control panel.
    She had switched on the machine guns as the aircraft had climbed up for a sweep, and her finger had been poised over the button that would have sent a volley of rockets into the grotto where the obscene black structure protruded from the glacier and the tiny figures of the men were so conveniently clustered; but one lone figure had been out on the frozen lake, struggling to its feet—and she had somehow recognized the posture.
    It had been Andrew Hale, and in another moment the shattering tracks of the machine-gun patterns would have stitched right over him.
    Into her head had flashed an image of his bloody hand outside the garret window in Paris, when the Gestapo had been within seconds of breaking down the door, and she had heard again his voice in Berlin saying, I will not say good-bye ever.
    And reflexively she had ordered the pilot to veer hard east. The move had required that they climb steeply, and in a moment the aircraft had flown right up over the glacier. But she believed the tracks of the bullets had missed Andrew Hale.
    Out the starboard window she watched the clouds keep wheeling past—clearly the pilot was coming around for another pass.
    And she remembered that the pilot too had an armament control panel on his instrument board.
    Mammalian was shouting, but his voice barely reached Hale. “The angels must think the helicopter was ours! Approach them, quickly!”
    Philby, propelled by a push from Mammalian, was lurching blindly out across the ice toward Hale. And Hale could feel the man’s approach in his mind, could feel the agitation of Philby’s fears and jangled memories aligning themselves with his own to form some bigger, other mind.
    Father, where are you? I’m your son—we’re your sons, we’re your son—
    The inhuman music of the sky seemed to respond, and the dust-devils of snow were dancing over the ice. The smell of metallic oil on the icy air was exotic, exciting.
    I will not have this, Hale made himself think. I will not be the restored half of Kim Philby. God help me. Hale bit the mitten off of his right hand and thrust his hand into the deep pocket of his parka.
    Behind him sounded the abrupt ripping roar of full-automatic gunfire. Hale spun on the ice, crouching and blinking through the frosted lenses of his goggles—but the gunfire was not aimed out toward himself and Philby. Mammalian was shooting at the Spetsnaz commandos.
    Hale choked out an involuntary whimper as he turned back to face the Black Ark on the far side of the ice.
    And it wasn’t a black wooden structure overhanging the ice now. The stone flank of the mountain was soaring obsidian arches and columns, and the ice cornices against the sky were gone, replaced by minarets shining in the sun, and the clouds were higher terraces and balconies of milky crystal, mounting away to the zenith. The towers of light stood in parallel out on the broad ice-paved square, each one wide as a house and taller than the mountain’s peak, and the crescendo of their inorganic singing was shaking clouds of snow from the high glacier crest and calling up answering verses in the mind that was Hale and Philby.
    A cold white light was shining out of the high windows of the black structure, flowing out of it, to join the columns of living sunlight.
    Hale felt his mouth drop open, and he could feel Philby’s mouth opening in the same moment, though Philby was twenty feet behind him; and now the welcoming towers of light had overlapped and entwined to become a figure whose brightness was nearly intolerable to human retinas—in the corona of glare, Hale could make out molten golden shoulders, a chest as deep as the Ahora Gorge, a vast face shining with challenge—
    Hale felt Philby’s knees buckle,