by Nevil Shute
Presently Ross turned to her. “Sir David told me that you had decided to come with us, Miss Lockwood,” he said pleasantly.
She said, a little primly: “We decided that my father ought to have somebody with him.”
“Of course.” He turned again to the don. “Have you got a map of Brattalid? I want to get an accurate idea of the area to be surveyed, so that we can get quotations for the job.”
Lockwood raised his eyes. “Quotations?”
The pilot explained. “I talked this over with Mr. Hanson. If you agree, we thought it would be best to put the photographic work with a firm of repute who are used to this sort of thing. You couldn’t go to better people than Photowork—they do this all over the world. I’m going to see them to-morrow. I was going to try and fix that they should send out a photographer ahead of us by one of the boats from Denmark, to meet us in Julianehaab. He’ll probably have to start within the next fortnight to get there in time.”
“That seems to be a very good arrangement, Mr. Ross.”
“I think it will be, if I can get them to take the job upon those lines. I can get a man who’s used to aero engines, too—most of their photographers are ground engineers as well. He’ll be able to give me a hand with the maintenance of the machine.”
“Is that a very big job?”
“There’s a lot of work in it—more than I’d care to tackle single-handed for any length of time. You must have help with a machine like that.”
The don got up and poured him out another whisky and soda. “Have you made out a route yet, Mr. Ross?”
Ross took the glass. “We’ll have to go by Reykjavik and Angmagsalik,” he said. “I’d really rather have started from the other side—from Halifax in Nova Scotia, or Quebec. I believe it would be easier that way. But it wouldn’t be practical. Hanson or somebody would have to come over there with me right away, and you’d have to join us over there later. I’m afraid that’s all too difficult. It’s not practical to organise a flight over here and start it from America. Not in the time.”
“I suppose not.”
“I decided against that. In July we should be quite all right, going from here through Iceland. There’s really only the pack ice at Angmagsalik—that’s going to be a worry, but we’ll have to take our chance of that.”
“Do you mean that there won’t be water for the seaplane to land on?”
The pilot shook his head. “There should be plenty of water at that time of the year. But as I understand it, the sea’s never quite free from little bits of floating ice at Angmagsalik, even in the middle of the summer. If we hit one of those and rip a float up taking off, that finishes the expedition for this year.”
The don nodded without speaking.
Ross hesitated. “I wish we hadn’t got to go so far up north, but I can’t see any way out of it. There’s one thing, though. If you agree, I’d like to lay down fuel supplies for us to come back home the other way. Over to Hopedale in Labrador, down to Halifax, and finish up at New York.”
“By all means, if you prefer it. Why do you want to do that?”
“I think it might be easier. The middle of September; that’s the equinox. It’s three months after mid-summer—getting a bit wintry up in those parts, Mr. Lockwood. I don’t much like the thought of going up so far as Angmagsalik and Reykjavik so late in the season. We might run into trouble, and we don’t want that.”
He paused. “There’s another thing. We’d sell the machine second-hand more easily on that side than on this.”
Lockwood opened an atlas on his desk. The pilot crossed the room and bent over his shoulder. “There you are,” he said. He traced the route with his finger. “Over to Hopedale—after that we’re practically back in civilised parts.” He stared at the map reflectively. “Battle Harbour might be better.”
The don smiled. “Hopedale,” he said thoughtfully. “I like your idea of civilised parts.”
The pilot nodded. “It’s only about 600 miles from there down to Halifax. They’ve got everything you want there.”
From the atlas they turned to a study of the land round Brattalid. The only map they had was a very sketchy one forming part of an archæological paper, which was at pains to indicate that it was not guaranteed. “I’ll have to see if they can help me at the Danish Legation,” said Ross. “But very probably there is no map. They may come and ask for the loan of our photographs when we get back, to make a map from. I’ve known that happen before now.”
They talked far on into the night. The pilot went to bed a very tired man.
Again he woke up early, and went down into the garden before breakfast. The girl was there before him; he approached her cordially. “I’m glad you’re coming with your father, Miss Lockwood,” he said. He must try and make the best of it. “It’s going to be quite a strenuous trip, and it’ll help him to have you there.”
She nodded. “It wouldn’t be possible for him to go alone,” she said a little coldly. “There’s one thing, Mr. Ross. Most people say ‘Sir’ when they speak to my father. Now that he’s engaged you, I think you ought to do the same.”
The pilot did not answer for a moment. He must keep his temper at all costs, retain his sense of humour. He forced a smile.
“Surely,” he said. “Would you like me to call you Madam?”
She flushed hotly. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said icily. “You can go on calling me Miss Lockwood.”
The ringing of the breakfast gong relieved the situation.
He left Oxford after breakfast, and went by train to London. He spent the rest of the morning, lunch, and the early afternoon in a conference with Photowork, the first of many. In the late afternoon he went to the Danish Legation; the air attaché was out, and he made an appointment for the morning. He went to the Royal Aero Club and rang up Hanson in Coventry to report progress, and went home to Guildford for the night.
Over supper he told Aunt Janet all about it. “I’m glad, for your sake, that you’ve got the job, Donald,” she said, “though it’s a terrible part of the world to be flying to. And so the lassie’s gaeing with her father. Weel, I’d say that’s no’ a bad thing. She’ll keep a check on you. You were always terrible wild with the money, Donald.”
He laughed. “She’ll keep a check on me all right,” he said ruefully.
There followed three weeks of intense restless work. He was wise enough to have the telephone installed in his aunt’s house; but for that he could not have completed his arrangements in the time. He concluded his deal with Photo-work in the first week, spent an afternoon with Jameson the engineer-photographer selected for the trip, and took the contract up to Coventry to be signed. He discovered that Greenland was a closed country to the casual tourist. First of all the Home Office required assurances that the expedition served a useful scientific purpose. They would then put it to the Foreign Office, who would approach the Danish Government through diplomatic channels for permission for the flight. If this were granted, five hundred pounds must be deposited in Copenhagen to pay for the expenses of a search if the machine were lost.
Sir David said: “I’m beginning to understand why people don’t go there for the week-end.”
It meant a lot of work for Ross. He visited the Home Office and the Foreign Office and the Danish Legation, not once but many times. He made two hurried trips to Oxford, while Lockwood negotiated with the Vice-Chancellor the formal request from the University to the Home Office that permission for the expedition should be applied for.
He made arrangements with Photowork, and with a small firm that built large cameras for the installation of the photographic gear in the machine. He made arrangements for the supply and installation of the wireless. He had several talks with the Canadian liaison officer at the Air Ministry; he found that the Dominion Government quite rightly insisted that he should carry a hundred pounds of emergency rations and a rifle and ammunition if he flew to Canada. He made arrangements with the police for a permit to buy a
rifle.
Sir David went to Oxford each week-end during this time. On the first of these visits he had a serious talk with Alix.
“Well, Alix,” he said cheerfully, “I fixed things up with Mr. Ross. He wasn’t very pleased when he heard he’d got to take another passenger, but he came round all right.”
“I suppose you mean he wasn’t very pleased when he heard he’d got to take me, Uncle David.”
The manufacturer said diplomatically: “Only because you’re a girl.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Now don’t take that attitude. I won’t have it, Alix. There’s a lot of good sense in what he said.”
“What did he say?”
Sir David cocked an eye at her. “He told Hanson that taking you was adverse—all debit and no credit, if you understand. He meant you weigh more, and your luggage weighs more, and your tent weighs more, and all that. That means he won’t be able to lift so much petrol in the aeroplane, and so he won’t get the flying range he would have had if you weren’t going. That’s true, of course. To balance that, he doesn’t think that you can help him very much.”
“He’ll find himself very glad of my help if Daddy gets ill.”
Her uncle looked at her doubtfully. “Yes … if he does.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I know he doesn’t want to take me.”
“Now, put that out of your head, Alix. He wants to do his job, and I’ve made it very plain to him that his job is to take you and your father to Greenland. But I see what he means. You’ll have to do everything you can to help him on the flight, and not add to his work.”
“I shan’t do that.”
He looked at her uncertainly. “Have you ever done any camping?”
“Of course I have, Uncle David. I ran a troop of Guides up to two years ago.”
He looked dubious. “I should think this would be a bit different to camping with the Girl Guides, Alix. Still, I suppose that’s something. What about languages? I suppose you don’t speak any Danish?”
She shook her head. “If that’s what you want, I could learn a good bit in six weeks.”
“Well, that’s something on the credit side if you do that.”
He stared at her reflectively. “Try and get alongside him,” he said at last. “The biggest danger on a trip like this is when people are fighting each other all the time. He as good as told me that.”
“That’s nice of him.”
He was suddenly irritated. “Well, Alix, when it comes to the point, I’m going to leave it in his hands whether you go or not. If he thinks it’s going to make his job too difficult to take a girl, you don’t go, and that’s that. We’ll find a young research lad to go with your father.”
She touched his arm “I’m sorry, Uncle David. I didn’t mean to be a beast. Of course I’ll do everything I can to help him with the trip.”
He glanced at her. “What’s the matter with him, Alix?”
She laughed shortly. “I don’t know—he’s such a stupid man. And he thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t seem to have an idea in his head beyond the number of gallons of petrol and the number of tins of bully beef.”
“Well, that’s his job. And that’s the job you’ve got to help in, if you’re going on this trip.” He paused. “You can’t help him with your violin.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. But really I will do what I can.”
“That’s better.” He looked her up and down. “Are you going with all that hair on your head?”
She was genuinely surprised. “Why not?”
“Get the nits in it, likely as not.”
She laughed again: “Oh don’t be so absurd!”
In the first few days of June Ross made a quick trip to Copenhagen with Jameson, the engineer-photographer. A ship was leaving Copenhagen for Iceland and Greenland; travelling slowly through the pack ice and calling at many settlements Jameson should reach Julianehaab shortly before they got there at the beginning of August. He took with him all the photographic equipment and most of their camping gear, food, equipment, and supplies.
In all they had nearly a ton of baggage. They visited the Gronlands Styrelse, and made a number of last-minute purchases. Then they went to the boat and saw the stuff on board; Ross said good-bye to Jameson, and stood watching as the vessel left the quay. Then he started back for London, travelling by night and day.
He was tired when he got back, but there was not time for rest. The seaplane left New York upon the day that he got back to England, on a ship bound for Southampton. He travelled down to Southampton, visited two aircraft works, and made arrangements with a firm at Hythe to erect the machine and house it for him during the test flights. He went back to Southampton, and made arrangements for the transport of the crated aeroplane by lighter from the ship to the works at Hythe. He interviewed the Customs both in London and Southampton, and entered into a long negotiation regarding the admission of the machine into the country in bond.
In London, the Royal Geographical Society told him where to get the concentrated foods, the pemmican and so forth, that he was compelled to carry as emergency rations in the machine. He visited each firm in turn arranging the lightest form of packing for the food; already he was desperately worried about weight. He bought a rifle and ammunition. Weight became his constant pre-occupation; he had certain limits that he must not overstep or he would carry insufficient fuel for safety. His worry over weight began to break his sleep; frequently he would wake at two in the morning and stay awake for hours.
In his researches into weight he weighed himself, and found that since he started on the job he had lost seven pounds. The fact cheered him; there were seven pounds in reserve that he had not known about.
He went down to Oxford and saw Lockwood and the girl. He weighed them both; the don was twelve stone six and the girl a little under nine stone. “I’m getting flying suits, helmets, and boots for both of you,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable that way, especially up North.” He figured quickly on a pad. “In those suits, that makes you about two hundred and two pounds, sir, and you a hundred and forty-seven, Miss Lockwood.”
The girl asked: “How much petrol weighs a hundred and forty-seven pounds, Mr. Ross?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Enough for about ninety-five miles.”
She smiled. “I see. You’ll expect me to do a lot of work to be worth that amount of petrol.”
He was embarrassed, and said awkwardly: “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Miss Lockwood. We shall be all right with the petrol we’ve got now, so long as we can keep the weight from creeping up on us.”
He turned to the don. “I’ve made a note of thirty-five pounds for your technical equipment, sir. Now, about your personal luggage. I’m getting linen kitbags made up for you both—they’ll save the weight of suitcases. I’m afraid you’ll have to limit yourselves to fifteen pounds each.”
Alix said impulsively: “But that’s impossible! We can’t go half across the world with only fifteen pounds for clothes and everything!”
The pilot turned and faced her. “I’m afraid you’ve got to, Miss Lockwood,” he said firmly. “I shall be taking nine pounds myself. I think if you start weighing out your things you’ll find that you can get a great deal into fifteen pounds.”
She said: “Daddy can’t possibly take his dinner jacket in that.”
“He won’t need it in Greenland, Miss Lockwood.”
“But what about the boat on the way back? We must change for dinner on the boat.”
The pilot sighed. “He’ll have to buy a dinner jacket in America. Or—how about this? If you like to pack a trunk with things I’ll have it shipped to New York.”
The don said: “Mr. Ross is right, Alix. I think the trunk is a very good idea. I’m quite sure you’ll find that you can manage on fifteen pounds while we’re travelling.”
The girl looked very doubtful, but said nothing more.
Lockwood said: “How is the load l
ooking now, Mr. Ross? How much petrol will we be able to take?”
The pilot lit a cigarette. “It’s rather indefinite,” he said. “I arranged for the machine to have tanks for fifteen hundred miles. Some of that’s in the fuselage, by the way—we shan’t be able to smoke. But now that there are three of us, I shan’t be able to get her off the water with that weight of fuel. Fourteen hundred miles brings her back to a thousand pounds overload—she should get off with that in good conditions.” He hesitated. “You might say that we’ll have thirteen hundred safe.”
“I see. How far is the longest flight we have to do?”
“Invergordon to Reykjavik—just on eight hundred miles.”
“You seem to have a good margin in hand.”
“And we may need it, Mr. Lockwood. If we don’t I’ll buy you a drink when we get to New York.”
He went back to London to unravel an appalling complication in the petrol shipments to Labrador.
Three days later the machine arrived at Southampton Docks. Ross was there to meet it, saw it unloaded, and travelled with it on the lighter to the works at Hythe, across Southampton Water. He stayed with it while it was erected, with the exception of one quick trip to London to expedite the delivery of the wireless apparatus. Then he was back with the machine, watching it come together. He was pleased with his judgment. It was a fine, robust, workmanlike seaplane, most suitable for the job it had to do.
When it was finished and ready for flight he had it put upon the scales. It was a hundred and four pounds over weight.
Desperately worried, he had it weighed again upon a different pair of scales. This time it was a hundred and ten pounds over weight. He did not have it weighed a third time, for fear it might go higher still.
With two mechanics to help him he set to work to get the weight down. They tore out the light roofing and upholstery of the cabin, weighing each fragment as they took it out. They stripped the three seats of their upholstered backs, reducing them to bare steel frames; the sleeping-bags would serve to pad them a bit more. They ripped out the safety glass windows of the cabin and substituted cellon, that was lighter and would last the trip. They ripped out a luggage locker in the tail. They removed a few fittings for the land undercarriage, and scrapped a little ladder that made it easy to get into the cabin.
