"You seem less a biologist than a philosopher," Hart said, meaning to joke but feeling uncomfortable. He'd never met a woman who talked like this. He was intrigued by her mind but not quite sure how to respond.
"You seem less a pilot than an artist," she countered. "I catch you watching things but not in the way the other men do, as an obstacle or a prize. You have an eye for beauty."
"Yes, I do," Hart risked, looking at her. Tendrils of her red hair fluttered against her ruff in the breeze and her skin was pale and taut in the cold. She blushed, then looked up at him, her eyes searching his.
"Greta, I..."
Abruptly, she turned away and was gone.
* * *
The
Schwabenland
met its first Norwegian whaler the next day. It was a large pursuit vessel, part of a flotilla of harpoon ships that would kill and tow whales to a factory vessel or shore station somewhere beyond the horizon. Its harpoon was mounted like a cannon on its bow.
"I'd like to see the dart that's loaded into that thing," said the pilot Kauffman, watching with Hart from the wing of the bridge deck.
"I saw them hunt last time," the American said. "The harpoons are as long as a man and weigh as much as Fritz. The tip alone is as long as your forearm. They explode inside the whale with a charge of powder. It's spectacular and violent."
"I would have thought it overkill. But then we saw the size of those whales."
The foreign ship swung about from its routine prowl and steamed over. Heiden watched the whaler's approach through binoculars and then spoke to a mate. "Break out the flag," he said. The German ensign began fluttering from a mast.
The Norwegian skipper called by radio, speaking a heavily accented German. "This is Sigvald Jansen from the
Aurora Australis,"
he greeted. "We don't get many aircraft carriers at sixty degrees south! Are you lost, my friends?"
Drexler smiled thinly. "We should tell
him
to get lost. After we stake our claim he is going to find himself in Reich territory."
Heiden ignored this. "This is Captain Konrad Heiden of the German seaplane tender
Schwabenland,"
he radioed back. "We're on a scientific mission to explore the continent by air. Do you have any word on the extent of the pack ice?"
There was a moment's hesitation as the Norwegians digested this information. "No, we haven't gone that far south," Jansen's voice crackled. "Maybe that's where our whales are hiding! We've had poor hunting so far."
"Well, we're going to the ice so we'll keep an eye out for whales," Heiden radioed. "Of course if we see any, we'll think of them as
our
whales."
The Norwegian actually laughed at that. "Ha! I can tell I am speaking to Germans! We'll it's almost Christmas, my friends, and ocean and ice enough to share. I'd like to satisfy my curiosity about that ship of yours. I think I can find a holiday present if you'll allow us to row over."
Heiden looked questioningly at Drexler. The political liaison considered a moment, then nodded. "We may learn something."
The captain spoke into the radio. "Be our guest!"
They watched the Norwegians work efficiently to launch a boat and pull strongly across. Jansen proved a big, thickly muscled man with a blond beard and ice-gray eyes. He came stomping into the
Schwabenland
's mess in an oilskin jacket and enormous black seaboots. "Ho, ho, ho!" he chortled, trying to imitate the Anglo-American version of Saint Nick. "Merry Christmas!"
Heiden shook the callused hand politely and began making introductions.
"He smells like a ripe whale," Feder whispered to Hart.
Drexler hung back, sizing the man up. Jansen noticed, and returned the scrutiny. "A political liaison?" the whaler repeated after Heiden's introduction. "Far from a ministry, aren't you?"
"Not far from political issues. As you know."
Jansen raised his eyebrows at that. "Really? I'd hoped we were." His bag, tied with red yarn, whomped down onto a table with a clink. "Merry Christmas." Bowing, Heiden unlaced it. Inside were several bottles of aquavit, a fiery Norwegian drink. "To keep you warm on your trip back!"
The German grinned. "And some Dutch courage to you, my friend," Heiden said, handing over a case of schnapps in return.
Jansen beamed. "I love religious holidays." He plopped into a chair and looked about curiously. "Nice ship. All this for science?"
"We're intending to explore new regions of the continent by air and establish formal claim," Drexler spoke up. "Our intention is to see more of Antarctica in a season than most explorers see in a lifetime. By airplane."
The Norwegian looked at the German with amusement. "Fair enough. But flying doesn't count, does it? I mean, you have to step ashore to lay claim. Politically speaking."
"We will," Drexler said. "Our Dorniers have skis, our launch has an engine, our rowboats oars. We intend to be everywhere, staking our claim."
Jansen laughed. "Yes, I can tell I am talking with Germans! Although the American there— Hart, is it? He has a bit of a different look— he sticks out like a crooked harpoon. Exactly who are you, young fellow?"
"I'm a pilot. I've flown in Antarctica before."
"Flown here before? And come back? With Nazis no less? Then you've got about as much sense as I do, locked in this stinking, miserable, butt-freezing, frustrating, bankrupt, glorious trade of whaling." He turned to Heiden. "It's not like the old days, you know. The whales are all gone. We've hunted them out."
"And yet you're still here," observed Drexler.
"As I've already told you, I've no more sense than the Yankee there."
"Of course," Drexler said dryly.
"Of course!" The Norwegian smiled broadly, scanning the room to see if anyone believed him. "It would be interesting to tour your ship. I've never seen a tender like this before."
"Unfortunately that's not possible," Heiden said. "Most of the ship is off limits because of the sensitivity of our scientific cargo. I'm sure you've seen her type before."
"Not down here."
"Yes. We Germans like to be first."
"Really? That's too bad, because we Norwegians have been here decades before you." Jansen's expression grew harder. "Be careful at the continent, my friends. It's cold down there. Lots of ice. We've learned to stay away from those latitudes." He looked grave.
"And why is that?" asked Heiden.
"A whaler ventured down that way last season. The
Bergen.
Wondered if the whales had been pushed that far south and radioed it had found a possible site for a rendering station. Then, poof! Was never heard from again."
"What happened?" the German captain asked.
"Who knows? Ice. Storm. I'm not about to go down there to find out! I'd advise you to exercise caution as well. But Germans! First in Austria, then Czechoslovakia, now Antarctica! Such ambition! I expect we'll meet again?"
"Only if you stay in these waters," Drexler said.
"Oh, we'll stay. These waters are home to us now." Jansen let his gaze flicker from German to German again, looking each of them squarely in the eye. "But then you already know that." He winked, stood, and clomped back to his waiting launch. "Merry Christmas!" he shouted again from the boat, waving as it rose and fell in the swells.
The German officers gathered on the bridge wing and watched the Norwegian whaler swing away.
"Like an animal peeing to mark his territory," Drexler assessed.
"He's probably saying the same thing about us," Feder remarked.
"God willing we'll be the first, not the last, of Third Reich explorers he meets down here," Heiden said. "He'll find more Germans than he likes and will have to adjust to it. Become an ally or an enemy."
"Better the former."
Heiden turned. The comment came from Fritz, pulling watch duty on the bridge.
"You speak from experience, Mr. Eckermann?"
"Yes, sir. Fished with them in '31. There's a bit of the Viking left. Best not to cross them, especially when it comes to boats and fish."
"And best for them not to cross us," Drexler said.
"Yes, the Norwegians are about to experience true competition," the captain agreed.
"And I wonder what happened to the
Bergen
?"
"I suspect Antarctica swallowed it."
* * *
The clouds darkened as they continued steaming south. The wind picked up. Snow began scudding across the deck and the temperature dropped, signaling their approach to the southern continent. The ship began to roll heavily and Hart stood lookout for icebergs, observing them pass like dark fortresses in the gloom. The weather continued foul for the brief night, the following day, and into a second night, while the ice grew steadily thicker. Christmas morning dawned with the ship pushing through thin pack ice, broken into floes the size of houses. It was loose enough that they could shoulder the ice aside, occasionally driving headlong into a floe and splintering it, cracks racing away from the bow of the ship. The ice rasped and banged against the hull. Drexler and Feder joined Hart on deck, watching the spectacle.
On some of the floes giant-sized seals snoozed, content on their mattress of snow. They obviously belonged here. "Crabeater seals, most of them," Greta told the men at the rail. "They get their name from eating krill."
"They look awkward."
"Not in the water," Greta said, smiling.
Drexler gathered some snow from the deck and threw a snowball at one. It raised its head and opened its mouth, giving a
grawkkk
as it yawned a sleepy protest. Then it wiggled forward into the water and slipped away like a dying note of music.
"Jürgen,"
she scolded, "you shouldn't harass them."
"They're just seals, Greta. Slugs of the ice."
"Jump in the water and swim next to them and we'll see who looks like the slug," she jested. "They've adapted to this place in ways we can only envy."
Drexler harrumphed. "Yes, they can swim, but they simply
exist.
They are passive, meek, dim."
"You wouldn't say that if you encountered a leopard seal."
"Oh?"
"They're spotted, ten feet long, weigh as much as four men, and have huge jaws full of sharp teeth. They can move faster than any of us and snatch us in a minute. They prey on penguins and seals."
Drexler laughed. "Well, I'm not a penguin, and I'm not going to lose any sleep over a seal. I do admire the way you love these animals, Greta. But I'm more concerned about the future of
our
species."
She looked miffed. "Someday you'll meet a leopard seal, Jürgen, and then you'll see."
"Someday." He shrugged.
* * *
The ship broke into clear water again, dark and cold. Now the passing bergs were tall and sharp like small jagged mountains. They passed a cluster of penguins standing on one, some sliding comically down the ice like children on a slide.
Christmas dinner was festive, lit by the warm glow of candlelight. Heiden was in a good mood about their progress. Feder became first amusingly and then annoyingly drunk. Schmidt sat in a corner, chain-smoking his cigarettes and content to just watch the others. It appeared there were no presents but Hart passed out intricately knotted key or watch chains he'd tied from thick cord. Greta's was inked red and green. When he presented it her cheeks were flush from the libations and her eyes shining with the excitement of being in such an exotic spot for the holiday. She lit up as if he'd given her a necklace and, leaning forward, quickly pecked him on the cheek. "I'm embarrassed I have nothing for you!" she whispered in his ear. Then she slipped away.
Drexler watched, fingering his own key chain. "Very thoughtful, Hart. It's good you're finding time for clever crafts. I don't have anything for you either but I do"—and here he raised his voice— "have something as well for our female pioneer."
She turned, smiling in surprise.
"Alone of her gender but not alone in our hearts," said Drexler with a bow. "To Greta for her tolerance of this rude company"—they laughed— "I present this gift." He pulled a wrapped package from behind a chair and handed it to the biologist. She blushed.
"Jürgen, you know you shouldn't single me out this way." She carefully unfastened the bright wrapping and peeked when it was half off. "It's a book!" More paper came off. The Germans clustered around. "A book about whales!"
"Not poetry, perhaps, but better than the one about paramecia," Drexler joked.
"But from
you,
Jürgen?"
"He picked it out in Hamburg," Heiden said. "Too timid to buy a romance, so he headed for the biology section." The Germans laughed.
"I figured I couldn't go wrong, getting you something connected with your specialty," Jürgen said sheepishly. "When I saw the title,
Lords of the Ocean,
it seemed like the right choice."
Greta nodded, her eyes moist. "You devil. You are more intrigued by them than you dare admit!" She grasped the back of his neck and kissed him, quickly, on the lips. The assembly roared with appreciation. "Thank you." She looked at him shyly, grasping the book to her breast. Jürgen smiled.
Hart watched from the shadows.
* * *
The next morning there was a watery dawn of gray light. As the sun climbed higher the wind dropped and the overcast began to break. The
Schwabenland
was in a lead of cold black water between two masses of pack ice, picking its way slowly southward. More silver-colored seals lounged on the ice floes, indeed looking from a distance like giant slugs. Maybe Drexler had a point.
Then the clouds on the horizon slowly spun away to reveal a harder shape. A chain of white mountains rose from the sea, the snow on them so thick and immaculate it looked like a wall of sugar.
"Antarctica," Hart announced to the Germans.
Antarctica was like a dream that stung. Part of it seemed soft and hallucinatory: the gauzy shimmer of downy white peaks reflected in a cobalt sea, vast icebergs drifting out of a cold fog, the ethereal gloom of crevasses sunk like blue wounds into crumpled glaciers. Yet the continent was hard as well: the blaze of reflected light that dazzled the eyes, the bitter cold that seared the nose and throat, or the rime of ice on railings and deck. Nose hair froze, lips cracked, and even the blinked moisture of an eye could become sticky from the chill. During a gale the wind could become so bitter that it would seem to suck all oxygen away with it, yet on a still day the sunny radiance could leave one's body glowing while standing on a slab of ice. Most of all there was the clarity of the air. The ordinary slight humid haze of temperate lands was wholly absent and distant mountains stood revealed in incredible detail. Instead of sharpening perception this clarity seemed to confuse it. The mind lost its common reference points and the landscape seemed less real, not more. Antarctica was as vivid as fantasy, as substantial as reverie. Hart had fallen in love with it the first time. He found he still feared it as well.