The sterile blankness of total incomprehension flooded Seagram’s face. He turned to Dormer and was met by the same expression. “It sounds crazy, absolutely crazy.”

” `Crazy’?” Koplin echoed. “Maybe, but no less true.”

“You seem pretty confident,” Donner muttered.

“Granted. I lost the tangible proof during my pursuit by the security guard; you have only my word on it, but why doubt it? As a scientist, I only report facts, and I have no devious motive behind a lie. So, if I were you, gentlemen, I would simply accept my word as genuine.”

“As I said, it’s your game.” Seagram smiled faintly.

“You mentioned tangible evidence.” Donner was calm and coldly efficient.

“After I penetrated the mine shaft-the loose rock came away in my hands, and I had only to scoop out a three-foot tunnel-the first thing my head collided with in the darkness was a string of ore cars. The strike of my fourth match illuminated an old pair of oil lamps. They both had fuel and lit on the third try.” The faded blue eyes seemed to stare at something beyond the hospital room wall. “It was an unnerving scene that danced under the lamp’s glow mining tools neatly stacked in their racks, empty ore cars standing on, rusting eight-gauge rails, drilling equipment ready to attack the rock-it was as though the mine was waiting for the incoming shift to sort the ore and run the waste to the dump.”

“Could you say whether it looked as if someone left in a hurry?”

“Not at all. Everything was in its place. The bunks in a side chamber were made, the kitchen was cleared up, all the utensils were still on the shelves. Even the mules used to haul the ore cars had been taken to the working chamber and efficiently shot; their skulls each had a neat round hole in its center. No, I’d say the departure was very methodical.

“You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans’ identity,” Donner said flatly.

“I’m coming to it now.” Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side. “The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers’ trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado.”

Seagram leaned back in his chair. “The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island.”

“Possibly,” Koplin said. “However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado.”

“Such as?”

“The body in one of the bunks for one.”

Seagram’s eyes narrowed. “A body?”

“With red hair and a red beard,” Koplin said casually. “Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, `Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who rose in a storm, February 10, 1912.”’