"Damn slop. I'm frozen above the knees and mired in quicksand below. You've combined the worst of two worlds, Owen: you've found a subzero bog. This is as much fun as a prostitute with cast-iron underwear."
"You speak from experience, Fritz?"
The little German dragged on a cigarette. "No, I can simply imagine the worst. It's a talent, like finding the only beach in Antarctica that's so warm you wallow in it. Jesus! Mud in an icebox!"
Hart ignored the ribbing. He felt good. He'd slept and then wakened to find the
Schwabenland
anchored in the volcanic caldera. A boat fetched the two aerial scouts for a hot breakfast. Everyone was jubilant at having found a temporary safe harbor and Greta kissed both Owen and Jürgen on the cheek. The relief was quickly undercut by the report of corpses on the
Bergen,
of course, but the wrecked whaler was also a perverse reminder that the Germans weren't entirely alone in the world. "We may be able to salvage items we need for repair," Heiden said.
Safety was the first question. The expedition leaders, including Greta, rowed over to the Norwegian ghost ship to investigate the mysterious tragedy. At Schmidt's insistence they went gloved and masked against possible disease. "Don't touch anything you don't have to," he warned.
Hart was content to watch them go, wanting no part of a return to the gloomy
Bergen.
Instead he volunteered to explore the island for other clues to the whalers' fate. Now he was off the cramped ship and on the crater beach with Fritz, who in truth seemed to relish the freedom as much as the pilot did. The sailor's complaint was understandable, however: the shore was as peculiar as the island's snug harbor. It steamed from a seep of hot mineral water that made the black volcanic sand mushy instead of frozen. Walking was laborious.
The weather had improved, the overcast breaking up. Hart preferred not risking the
Boreas
in a takeoff in the confined crater— it would be safer to wait for a catapult launch out at sea, he advised— but was willing to climb to the crater rim for a better look at where they were. Heiden had confirmed when arriving by ship that the island consisted of two major volcanic peaks and the usual mantle of snow and glaciers but knew little beyond that. "Perhaps our mishap will prove fortunate if this sheltered harbor can serve as a future base," the captain had mused at breakfast. "Look around with that in mind, Hart." It was the same benefit-from-adversity line spouted by Jürgen Drexler. Maybe the Germans taught it in school.
"Cheer up, Fritz," the pilot now said. "I'm going to take you out of this mud." He pointed to the crater rim, at least two thousand feet above them. "Should be good walking, once we get on top."
The little German let his head tilt back to study the snow-patched pumice slope. The sheltered caldera and its heat apparently prevented the heavy accumulation of snow normally encountered in Antarctica. "God in heaven." He took another drag on his cigarette. "Perhaps you've confused me with those mountain Nazis. I went to sea to stay out of the infantry, my friend."
"No confusion. I asked for you because you're the better conversationalist."
"Ha! A donkey's ass makes better conversation than those robots. As if I'll have breath to gasp a word anyway."
"Exactly. Every trial has its benefits. You Germans keep telling me that."
"If you're relying on Germans for advice you've been on the ship too long."
They started up. The mud ended immediately but the pumice was like climbing a sand dune. Their feet slid backward and puffs of ocher dust colored their trousers. They began aiming for patches of snow, preferring to kick-step their way up frozen crust. The ship's motor launch had landed them on the western, seaward side of the crater. Hart's plan was to climb to the top, follow the rim around to where it faced the other volcano— giving an interior view of the island— and then descend to the opposite eastern crater shore.
Climbing was hard, slogging work. They shed their parkas and paused frequently to rest, the ships shrinking to toys beneath them. The
Schwabenland
churned out a steady stream of water. The crew had wrapped its breach with canvas to let the pumps get ahead of the leakage, but a more permanent repair was required before they returned to sea.
Cold wind at the crater rim swiftly went from refreshing to chilling and they put their parkas back on. The ocean beyond the crater was indigo this day, dotted with icebergs and fractured platters of sea ice. Far to the south the mountains of the Antarctic mainland formed a serrated wall. Across the caldera lagoon the peak of the other volcano poked higher than their own, still gently steaming. The raw beauty, the wild emptiness, the crisp tug of the air: all were like an intoxicating drug to the pilot. For a moment life seemed scrubbed clean again. The horror of the
Bergen
and the insane battle with the
Aurora Australis
could be forgotten.
"Gorgeous, eh, Fritz?"
"Aye." The seaman was still breathing heavily. "Though it would be better with palm trees. And a stein of beer."
They started around the crater ridgeline of hardened lava and crusted snow. Looking down, Hart saw some of the troops carrying shrouded bodies out of the half-sunken whaler. They were ferrying them ashore by longboat.
The pair reached the opposite side of the rim at noon and sat down to eat and drink. The need to fight dehydration reminded Hart of the importance of fresh water to any future German base. Melting snow or glacial ice was laborious. Here, perhaps, the earth's heat would provide a more convenient source. Studying that portion of the crater lit by the low Antarctic sun, he indeed saw liquid water emerging from a point halfway up its inner slope. The stream sank back into the pumice before reaching the crater lagoon but the beach beneath steamed with heat. They'd take a closer look on the way back down, he decided.
A peculiar valley linked their truncated cone to the higher, steeper volcano that still steamed. Hart had heard talk of Antarctic dry valleys but this was the first one he'd seen: a long cleft between knifelike igneous ridges with a frozen lake at its bottom. The surrounding pumice slopes and basalt outcrops looked as barren as Mars. Unlike the rest of the island some combination of wind, heat, and low precipitation kept the valley almost entirely snow-free. It reminded Hart of deserts he'd visited in Arizona.
"I wonder what keeps the snow out."
"Elves." Fritz grunted, tired enough to have sprawled on the rocky ridge with his pack for a pillow and his face turned to the chilly sun. "Lava. A toll gate. Who cares?"
"You don't want to investigate?"
"I don't see any women down there, do you?"
"Where's your spirit of adventure, Fritz?"
"With my respect for your leadership. Lost in the first five hundred feet of that damned pumice slope."
They started back down the inside of the crater. Rather than aim for the beach where he intended to be picked up, Hart angled for the silvery cord of the emerging stream. It originated from shadow at the base of a rocky outcrop on the crater wall.
"A cave," he announced. The water emerged from a spring on the crater flank, steaming in the cold. Just behind the small pool was a dark, tunnel-like opening. "Lava tube, it looks like. I've seen them in the West. Magma runs through them and empties out, leaving a cave behind."
"So it goes into the mountain?" Fritz asked. "Stinks like it." There was a faint odor of sulfur.
"Maybe." Hart took out a tin drinking cup to dip some water, gingerly putting his finger in first. "Warm, but not too hot." Then he sniffed, making a slight face. "Minerals." He offered it to the German. "Smell it."
Fritz was hesitant but did so, crinkling his nose. "Bilgewater!" He looked at the American skeptically.
"We should have Greta here to investigate," Hart said.
"Yes. To keep you from poisoning us." Fritz pushed past him. "I'm more interested in the cave. Warmer, I suspect." He entered the opening. "It seems to go back a ways. Cozy despite the stink... ow! Damn rocks!"
Hart followed him and stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The sailor was rubbing his shin. A number of volcanic stones had been pyramided to build a cairn and Fritz had stumbled over it.
"Someone has been here before us," the pilot said. "They left a marker."
"Wonderful. In a place just dark enough that I could break my leg on it."
"No. They knew anyone coming to the island would eventually come here to look for water. This tube is sheltered from storms. A perfect place."
"For what?"
"To... mark something." He looked around at the walls of the cave but saw nothing. "Maybe to call attention to this tunnel. Or to bury something."
"From the
Bergen
?"
"Perhaps." He scratched with his knife at the soil.
"Treasure?" With new enthusiasm, Fritz began tossing the rocks to one side, dismantling the cairn.
"It was a whaler, Fritz, not a Spanish galleon."
"They cached their blubber right here."
Once the rocks were scattered they had to dig only a few inches before striking something metallic. It was a steel box a foot square: a simple food tin. The label was illegible. "Look at the rust," the pilot said. Antarctic air was usually so dry and cold that wood would not rot, metal would not rust, food would stay frozen. "You can tell it's warmer and wetter here."
"Science triumphs again. Of course I noticed that by putting my parka hood back, but then I'm just a simple sailor."
Hart pried at the box with his knife and it popped open easily. "No gold coins, I'm afraid." He lifted the object out. "A book." He flipped it open and saw handwriting, the pages brown with discoloration. "A notebook, or journal." He handed it to the German.
Fritz carried the book to the mouth of the cave where the light was better. "It's in Norwegian. From the
Bergen,
no doubt. A diary of some kind. See the dates?" Hart looked over his shoulder.
"Why would they bury a diary?" the pilot wondered. "And just our luck that we can't read it."
"I can," said Fritz. "Slowly. I learned when I fished with the Norwegians while Germany was in the Depression. It was the only way to scan the newspapers the supply tenders brought out. But I'm as rusty as that tin. A dictionary would help; I think I saw one in
Schwabenland
's library. We did, after all, expect to meet Norwegians down here."
"Can you make anything out?"
The seaman flipped idly through. "I think it talks about the sickness they found here. The author was a last survivor." A piece of loose paper slipped from the book and Hart snatched it before it was carried away by the wind. It had just a few large words, scrawled in ink. He handed it to Fritz. "What does this say?"
The seaman studied it for a moment, then looked soberly up at the pilot. "It says, 'Get off the island.' "
* * *
"Our island needs a name, Alfred," Captain Heiden challenged. "What should we call it?"
The geographer sipped his tea moodily, studying the officers gathered after dinner in the
Schwabenland
's mess. " 'Destruction' has occurred to me," Feder said sourly. "Or 'Cataclysm.' They're appropriate for whatever explosion blew off the top of this volcano and created the fissure that let in the sea, not to mention the
Bergen
and our current plight."
"My goodness, Alfred," Drexler said. "Even the Vikings had the sense to name their discovery 'Greenland' in hopes others might follow. Can't we be more optimistic? How about 'Opportunity Island,' or at least 'Destination'? I swear the Fates mean us to be here."
"I would agree to 'Termination' if it means we can end this expedition and get back to Germany before we sink," Feder replied. "This harbor feels as snug as a trap to me, with that damn ghost ship so nearby."
"That's worse than your first two!" Heiden laughed. "You're in too bad a mood to name anything."
"All those bodies." Feder grimaced.
"Hart, you've been ashore," the captain said, turning to the pilot. Owen had already reported the warm beach, the view from the crater rim, the spring of mineral water, and the cave. He'd decided to keep news of the diary to himself for the moment. Fritz was trying to read it now in his cabin below. "Any suggestions?"
The pilot shook his head. "All we saw was pumice and snow. And let's face it, we don't know yet if this island will prove cozy or hostile."
The group was quiet a moment. All had been disturbed by the wrecked whaler.
"Surely the former," Heiden finally said. "As hideous as the fate of the
Bergen
appears to be, its presence means we should be able to salvage some of its bow plate for a temporary patch. The repair won't be perfectly watertight but should be good enough that our pumps can keep pace with it. Then we can go home."
Everyone nodded. Since the seaplane tender had been damaged and one plane lost, home seemed very far away indeed.
"All this is predicated on the
Bergen
's being safe to work on," Heiden went on. "Clearly, something disastrous happened here and we don't want to repeat the experience. So let's set the naming aside a moment and turn to that. Dr. Schmidt?"
The German's hands were wrapped around a coffee mug for warmth and his thin frame was hunched even in the overheated mess. "It's freezing on that wreck," he observed. "But for us this is actually good. It makes unlikely any chance of our own contamination."
Heiden nodded.
"I've inspected some of the corpses," Schmidt went on. "The contortions of the bodies suggest some assault on the nerves or muscles. Their fluid-filled lungs suggest a pneumonic disease, something that can be spread by breathing or coughing. A truly ghastly contagion and extremely quick, judging from the place of death: many collapsed at their station. But violently virulent diseases tend to burn themselves out quickly. The bacteria or virus usually dies with those initially infected. If not, the cold should have killed or immobilized the microbes. So I think the chance of catching the disease is extremely slight, though it's best to remain masked and gloved. To be surer I'm having the bodies stacked on the beach and will burn them with aviation fuel. But with their removal and the confinement of our own sailors to the
Bergen
's outer deck, I think the risks are acceptable. After all, we
do
have to repair
Schwabenland."
He glanced with irritation at Drexler, who ignored him.