"To the crucible of history and our Führer!" an equally tipsy Drexler added.
"To peace on earth," Greta said. There was a grunted assent from the males.
"To Antarctica, the last untouched place," said Hart.
He surreptitiously studied Greta's face in the candlelight, trying to keep from making his fascination too obvious. Sometimes she'd glance at him and, seeing him watching her, look uncertainly away. Drexler noticed once and evenly stared at Hart a moment before turning back to fill her glass. The man hung on her like a cloak. And yet she didn't melt into him, Hart noticed, but he could tell the caution frustrated the political officer. She sipped champagne but lacked the gaiety she'd demonstrated at Christmas. She'd seemed subdued since their quarrel on the beach.
The champagne aboard had been cooled for the day in the galley refrigerator. When a bottle emptied Hart decided it was his turn to fetch another. He worked his way in the dark past the steel sideboard and hanging pots and opened the door, leaning into its pool of light to seize a bottle. As he swung around, closing the door with his elbow, the eclipsing illumination showed Greta frozen behind him. The door clicked shut.
"I guess we had the same idea," she whispered in the dark.
He hesitated a moment, gauging what to say. "Greta," he finally decided, "I'm just trying to be a friend."
He heard her sigh. "Owen... it's not you."
He waited, saying nothing.
"It's... just me, the expedition. Things are not going exactly as I expected. Jürgen and I are trying to... we knew each other before... it's complicated. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too."
She didn't move, a shadow in the dark. A tremulous breathing.
What the hell, Hart thought.
He reached up, the tips of his fingers cold from grasping the champagne. He touched her hair, then let his fingers brush against her cheek. For a moment he thought he heard her heart and then realized it was his own. Still she didn't move.
Damn.
He reached around to cup the back of her neck and leaned forward, the scent of her filling his senses. He hunted for her lips and then he was kissing her, a bit awkwardly as she stiffened. Her own head tilted and she was hesitantly kissing him back, her arms still at her side. And then she jerked and took a step back.
"You shouldn't have done that." And with that she was gone.
He waited a minute, giving her some grace to collect herself and himself time to calm down. That was stupid, he told himself. You're no good at this.
"Where's the champagne?" a drunken Feder was calling.
Hart came slowly back into the mess, bearing the bottle and smiling wanly. Greta was gone. So was Drexler. The men were slumped, looking desultory. "The only woman and she left," Kauffman said, groaning. "All she does is remind you of what you're missing."
"Where's Jürgen?" Hart asked.
"Like a hound on a hunt, what do you think?" Feder laughed, gesturing at the door. "Or like a dog after an auto, wondering what to do when he catches it." He laughed again.
* * *
They had hangovers the next morning. The storm had passed, leaving a gray overcast. The ship slowly picked its way along the coast, aerial exploration suspended. Only a few even came to lunch. Hart looked out over the ice. Before Antarctica he'd never dreamed that water could freeze in so many different ways. There was a litany of navigator names for it: anchor ice, bare ice, brash ice, close ice, compacted ice, deformed ice, dried ice, fast ice, floe ice, frazil ice, grease ice, growler ice, hummocked ice, ice rind, multiyear ice, nilas ice, rafted ice, ridged ice, rotten ice, shuga ice, slush ice, strip ice, tongue ice... This was pancake ice, freshly frozen in platters several feet across that looked like giant pancakes. The wind had jostled them together so that the edges overlapped like scalloped potatoes. Some pieces looked dirty and reddish on the bottom. The sailors speculated it was dust blown from Africa, but Greta told them it was really algae that grew there, something biologists had scarcely thought possible.
Hart sighed, listening to her. He assumed she was angry and he supposed she had a right to be. He'd made a presumption without clarifying her feelings. He felt like an oaf.
Still, he reminded himself, she'd hesitated before fleeing. He missed her. The thought of being on board the rest of the voyage and having her avoid him was intolerable. If she was committed to Drexler, that was fine, he'd hardly expected anything else. He enjoyed talking to her, however. Couldn't they at least do that?
He brooded about it all day, turning events over in his mind. That evening he went to Greta's laboratory, intending to apologize for his forwardness. Taking a deep breath, he rapped on the door.
There was a bang inside as something fell over and then a shuffle of feet. "Just a minute!" she called, somewhat breathlessly.
Hart waited several seconds. When she pulled open the door her sweater was rumpled and her hair awry. She looked startled to see him. "Owen! What is it?"
She half stepped through the door to partly close it behind her. The movement wasn't quick enough to shield his view of Drexler, standing in the shadows of what was a dimly lit room.
There was an awkward pause. Hart cursed himself for coming but it was too late to simply leave. "Look," he began, swallowing. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, okay? I... I was wrong to do that. Without asking, I mean. And I don't intend to criticize. It's Germany's expedition, your expedition. I'm just along for the ride."
She blinked. "Oh. Yes." She seemed momentarily confused as to what he was talking about and then, when she remembered, struggling between having several things to say. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
It was obviously the wrong time. "Sorry to bother you." Hart felt foolish. She was silent, giving no encouragement but looking troubled. He turned and walked down the passageway. What a mess, he told himself. Stick to flying.
"Owen..." he heard her whisper.
But he kept going.
* * *
The expedition's turn toward disaster began with their return to the air. At first the flying was a relief. Hart welcomed the launching jolt and freezing air as a tonic to shock away his depression. The terrain was as Schmidt had remarked on the first beach: elemental. Simple. Without complication or attachment. This is what he'd come for, Hart thought, the opportunity to come to terms with a place that promised nothing. He had to concentrate on that.
The radio in
Boreas
had gone down and they were using that plane close to the ship, but the
Passat
was still flying wide surveys. They probed toward a barrier of mountains to the southwest, Hart dutifully leaning out to drop stakes like motes into a vast, white, unblinking eye. Then they headed north to the coast and out over the ice pack. Kauffman had decided to follow its edge back to the
Schwabenland.
As they swung east toward their ship Hart looked out at the bergs dotting the cold ocean. There was a darker shape among them and he hefted a pair of binoculars curiously. It was a ship! He focused and his initial impression was confirmed. It looked like a whaler. Hart jostled Kauffman on the shoulder and directed him to look. The pilot nodded and angled closer, peering.
"Damn," the German muttered. It looked like the
Aurora Australis.
"What are they doing this far south, so close to the ice?"
Hart swung the glasses around, searching. Then he pointed again. "Hunting." So wispy as to almost be missed, a tendril of spray puffed above the ocean and the waters roiled. Whales, midway between the Norwegians and Germans.
Kauffman aimed for the foreign ship, accelerating slightly. He roared over it barely above mast height, a couple of seamen instinctively ducking. "They're not supposed to be down this far, Hart," the German growled. "They're trying to make a point, the bastards. Don't radio. We need to discuss this in private." The German set course for the
Schwabenland.
Once on board they sprinted for the bridge. "The Norwegians are just fifty kilometers to the west," Kauffman reported. "Right down near the ice. There's a pod of whales between us and them. Icebergs all around. It's far below their normal hunting range."
Instead of commenting, Heiden turned to Drexler and waited. The political liaison frowned, pondering. "I don't care what that bearded Viking said," he told the captain. "He wouldn't risk the ice just to chase whales in this region. He's shadowing us. Making a point."
"Perhaps. Or looking for the
Bergen."
"Maybe he's just hunting," Hart offered.
"Hunting and posturing." Drexler turned to Feder. "Was our rendezvous before Christmas planned, do you think? Is he trying to track us?"
"No, it was fortuitous, coincidental. The ocean is vast, our timing uncertain. But he's smart, and curious. Do we know something he doesn't? Are whales down here? He trails us, he looks for whales: why not, if hunting elsewhere is as poor as he claims?"
"How many whales?" asked Greta, who had also come to the bridge. She looked at Hart. "What kind?"
"Does it matter?" Drexler asked.
"They must have swum this far south to feed," she said, excited. "It would be interesting to see what they're preying on— to sample for krill."
Drexler considered this. Then he looked at Heiden.
"We can't permit him to come after us, dropping flags, confusing dates of first claim, muddling our authority. You know that."
The captain nodded unhappily. "We can't but we must. We're not at war, Jürgen. The sea is unclaimed. He can prowl where he wishes."
"Nonsense. Take a German trawler to Norwegian fishing grounds and you'll not hear them braying such nonsense. They simply act to protect what is theirs. We must do the same if we're to fulfill our duty to the Reich."
Heiden looked wary. "What do you want to do?"
Drexler nodded toward Greta. "Sample krill," he said decisively. "At the pod."
"Krill?"
"Yes, krill. I want to cut him off." He looked at Greta, calculating. "He can't hunt if we're at the pod first, doing scientific research. We can save these whales for future breeding, help Greta do her research, and send a message that this is no longer a profitable whaling ground— all at the same time. This is ultimately why we came here, Konrad: to make our interests plain."
"Jesus," said Hart. "Cut him off? Did you get a look at that guy? I don't think he's the type to take interference lightly."
"Do you think
I
am?" Drexler said. He glanced again at Greta. "I'm not afraid of a bunch of damned fish eaters. I'm not afraid of accomplishing my mission."
Greta was watching them uncertainly. "What's your plan?"
"Simple enough. Our ship between theirs and the whales. You in a boat sampling krill, observing behavior, whatever you wish. We're here for science, yes?"
"It sounds risky," Hart objected.
"History's lesson is that it's inaction that is risky."
The pilot looked at Greta, waiting for her to say no. "I do want to see the whales," she said instead, hesitantly, looking at her fellow Germans.
Hart shook his head. "But what if the Norwegians— "
"I want our time down here to
mean
something," she said. "Jürgen is right."
Hart bit his lip, irritated at her choice but reminded by her manner that he was the foreigner. "All right. It's your expedition."
Drexler nodded. "Exactly." He turned to Heiden, assuming an air of command. "Set course now."
The captain gave a short, hesitant nod. "As you wish." He barked some orders. The ship began to turn and pick up speed. Hart was surprised at the deference to the political liaison.
"It's best to hurry," Feder said. "The barometric pressure is dropping. A threat of bad weather."
"Jürgen, will we get there in time?" Greta asked.
"It's late in the day. I'll do my best." He laid a rule against the chart, then glanced up at the pilots. "Good eyes, Reinhard. And you too, Hart. But now I suggest you adjourn to the galley. We're going to be busy up here, making clear the new order of things."
The pair retreated down the companionway.
"A bit presumptive, isn't he?" asked Hart. "I thought he was an advisor. Suddenly he's acting like an admiral."
"This is an issue of
territory,
Owen," the German pilot replied. "When Reich politics are at stake, we turn to our major in the SS."
The Norwegian whaler was leaking blood.
It was late in the day, the sun sinking into a chill haze and the wind slowly rising. The
Schwabenland
rolled uneasily in the growing swell, Hart feeling slightly ill as he stood at the rail and studied the carcass being towed behind the
Aurora Australis.
The whale's body had been pumped full of compressed air to keep it afloat and its tail rose and fell in the swells with a doleful wave, leaving a trail of scarlet. Jansen had struck at the pod. Now a boat was fastening a flag to the beast and the Norwegian was cutting the whale loose to drift for later recovery. His ship began to leave a broader wake as it accelerated, aiming for the survivors. Aiming toward Greta Heinz.
Hart had gone out on deck after another frustrating encounter on the bridge. The Norwegians and Germans had arrived at the whales at almost the same time, Jansen swinging away to hunt down a stray at the edge of the pod. As the Germans slowed to a drift while considering what to do, the Norwegian's harpoon had made a crack clearly audible across the icy sea. Drexler watched unhappily, mentally calculating how far he dared push the situation.
"Are we too late?" asked Feder.
In answer, the feeding whales swam past the German ship as if instinctively seeking shelter, water roiling when they surfaced. Suddenly the
Schwabenland
was interposed between hunter and hunted.
"It appears not," decided Drexler. He picked up the radio. "This is the
Schwabenland
calling
Aurora Australis.
We're conducting a scientific survey of this pod of whales and your hunting is disrupting our investigation. We request that you depart immediately."