by Nevil Shute
Lockwood nodded. “We’ve got plenty of time in hand. If the governor can put up with us, we can afford to wait for a decent day.”
The pilot nodded. “Still, I think we should get on with it,” he said. “Jameson should have got to Julianehaab yesterday. There’s nothing to prevent us going straight to Brattalid as soon as we arrive.”
The don said, “Of course, the more time we can have upon the site the better.”
Ross thought for a minute. “I wonder why the operator at Julianehaab didn’t have any message for us from Jameson? He must be there by now.”
“That’s rather curious.” They discussed it for a minute or two, and decided that it was not worth a special message. “We’ll probably be there tomorrow morning.”
In the evening they took a short walk up the hill above the settlement. The little harbour lay below them with the yellow seaplane moored in the middle, bright and conspicuous. Beyond the harbour lay the coast, mountainous, rocky, and desolate, rising up out of a sea thick with ice.
Lockwood said, “My goodness, it’s a terrible country.”
Alix shivered. “I’ll be glad to get away from here. It’s uncanny.”
Ross glanced at her. “Why do you say that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t like to stay here long.”
He nodded. “Neither should I. But the people are nice — what there are of them.”
She stared around. “I know — but the country’s horrible. It’s so absolutely barren. Just these tiny plants among the rocks.” She indicated them with her foot.
Her father said, “It’s really not a habitable land.”
“I should think not.”
They went back to the governor’s house and had an evening meal of porridge and dried fish and coffee. Then, at about nine o’clock, they went up to the attics. Ross carried up the sleeping bags, and put one on the bed.
“They’re all the same size, Miss Lockwood,” he said. “It’ll be too big for you, but that’s a fault on the right side.”
With the coming of the night the room was bitterly cold. The windows were sealed tight, nor did they want to open them especially. She asked him, “What do you do with it, Mr. Ross?”
He showed her how it opened. “Get into it and go to sleep. Look, I’ll get you some of this stuff from our room to make a mattress to put it on.”
She looked at him, amused. “Are you supposed to undress properly and wear pyjamas in it?”
He smiled. “That’s nobody’s business but yours, Miss Lockwood. I’m not going to take off much myself. It’s too damn cold.”
He went into the next room and attacked an opened bale of blue serge cloth; he carried a large quantity of this back into the girl’s attic and arranged it in many layers over the skeleton of the bed. “There’s your mattress,” said the pilot. “Now the sleeping bag on top of that.” He arranged it for her. “Now if you don’t take off too much, you should be really comfortable.”
She turned and faced him. The wavering light of the one candle in the room threw moving shadows in the corners. The two dead eider ducks hung from the beam, their wings outstretched and throwing a grotesque shadow on the wall.
The girl said gently, “Thank you, Mr. Ross. It’s been good of you to take so much trouble. You’ve made me a lovely bed.”
The pilot said, “I hope you have a decent night. Good night, Miss Lockwood.”
“Good night.”
He went out, closing the door behind him. In the attic the girl stood deep in thought, looking after him. Then she roused herself, took off her overalls, and got into her sleeping bag in her underclothes.
In the other attic Ross found the don laying out his bed upon the floor, methodically and efficiently. Ross joined him; they contrived to make good beds upon the trade goods. They took off their outer clothes, wriggled into their bags, and lay for a time before sleeping.
Lockwood said, “I suppose this represents the most difficult part of the flight, Mr. Ross.”
“That’s so,” said the pilot. “After this, we shouldn’t get any more ice. Julianehaab’s a bigger place than this, too. And at Brattalid we’ll have a proper camp. No, this is the really tricky bit. Taking off tomorrow in all that ice is going to take a bit of doing. I may have to dump a good deal of fuel to get her off the water in the space we’ve got.”
“I suppose you must have done a lot of flying in this sort of ice?”
“Not more than I could help.” The pilot yawned. “Hudson Bay gets a bit like this at the break-up. But there it’s all in slabs — you don’t get bergs like these.”
The don nodded sleepily. “Because there are no glaciers.”
“I suppose so.”
They lay silent; presently the even breathing from the other bag told Ross that Lockwood was asleep. He lay wakeful, with an active mind. It was odd that Jameson had not been in touch with them. With wireless communication all along the coast, he must surely know where they were. But it was probably all right.
He thought of the take-off in the morning. It would need the greatest care. Any damage to the seaplane here would end the trip, and mean the charter of a special ship from Reykjavik to get them home that year. Otherwise they would spend a year of their lives in that attic. He’d have to play very, very safe. He must balance the safety factors. It would be safer to make sure of the take-off even if it meant starting with fuel for only eight or nine hundred miles.
He thought of Alix in the next room, wondered if she was asleep. She was helping him enormously with her Danish, and in the refuelling. It was panning out much better than he thought it would when he first met her in Oxford. Far, far better. . . .
Alix, Jameson, the ice pack, the fuel, the fog, Alix . . . His mind ran slowly round in circles as he dozed in the bag.
Presently he stirred and looked at his watch. He had been in bed an hour, and was no nearer sleep. This wouldn’t do at all — at all costs he must have a decent night. He reached out for his pack and took a tablet of Propylin. Soon he was sleeping quietly, his steady, even breathing joined with Lockwood’s.
He slept till his alarm clock went off, yet on awaking it seemed to him that he had not slept very well. He had been dreaming. He could remember nothing of his dreams, but he knew that they had been very vivid. The fact impressed itself upon his memory because he seldom dreamed at all. Still, he awoke refreshed, and rolled over and wriggled out of his bag. He went over to the window and wiped the condensation from the glass.
Lockwood asked, “What’s the day like?”
“Fine. There must be a fearful fug in here.”
There was a stir of movement in the lower parts of the house, showing that the governor and his wife were about. Lockwood called to Alix, and got a sleepy reply that she was getting up. Presently they were all downstairs, eating a meal of porridge and jam washed down with hot coffee.
Outside, the day was bright. They walked up to the wireless station; the operator was receiving, and they waited till he had finished. Presently he came out to them.
He told them that the weather was good at Julianehaab, but there was fog about. It would probably stay clear till noon.
Ross thought about it for a minute. “It’s another of these touch and go ones,” he said irritably. He turned to the operator. “Is that a good report? Do you ever get a report of settled, clear weather in these parts?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “This year there has been fog part of all the days. It has been very calm.”
The pilot hesitated, irresolute. “What’s it going to do here?”
The wireless operator looked around. “I do not know. It is calm. I think it will remain calm. If I were sending a forecast, I should say there would be fog here later.”
“Will it be any better tomorrow, or the next day, do you think?”
The man said, “For Greenland, this is good weather. There is no storm. Sometimes here the wind blows two hundred, two hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. T
he weather now is very good.”
The pilot turned to Lockwood. “I think we’ll go, sir. I’ll keep in touch with Julianehaab on the wireless; if it gets thick there while we’re on the way we shall have to come back. You’ve got to take a bit of a chance in this sort of place, or you’d never get anywhere.”
They went and said good-bye to the governor and his native wife; then they went with Thomas to the seaplane in a boat. They took an empty petrol drum with them; Ross worked for some time down on the floats draining off forty gallons from the big tank in the cabin, to lighten their load for the take-off. Then they dropped the mooring, and the boat took the machine in tow towards the entrance of the inner harbour.
Presently they cast off, started the engine, waved good-bye to Thomas, and taxied out towards the ice pack.
It took them a quarter of an hour of taxiing among the ice to find a suitable lane. At last they found one about three-quarters of a mile long. Ross cruised over it at a slow speed on the water, keeping a sharp lookout for floating ice, and returned to the leeward end. He swung round into the wind, and opened the throttle.
The take-off was an anxious time for them all. The seaplane was nearly half way down the run before she was riding smoothly on the step; the floating ice raced by them on each side at a great speed. The pilot sat tense and motionless, waiting for the last moment to try to pull her off the water. With a hundred and fifty yards of their clear water left ahead of him he eased the wheel back firmly, prepared to throttle down at once if she did not respond. She left the water, however, touched again lightly; then she was two feet up and gaining speed. He slewed her gently to avoid a peak of ice ahead of them; white ice flashed past immediately beneath the floats. Then they were clear and climbing slowly out over the pack. Ross sighed a little, and relaxed.
At five hundred feet he turned, and began to fly westwards, following the coast. Soon the coast turned south and they turned with it, flying at about three thousand feet above sheer desolation. The coastline stretched rocky and indented for as far as they could see. Inshore, the white line of the icecap bordered the sky; from it the glaciers ran down between rocky outcrops to the fjords running deep into the land. There was no sign of habitation, or of life of any kind.
The pilot reeled out his aerial, and sent a message to Julianehaab asking for the weather. The reply was much as it had been before. The weather at Julianehaab was fine, but there was fog about and it was expected to be foggy later on.
They droned on steadily down the appalling coast, making good about a hundred miles an hour. At the end of the first hour Ross again spoke to Julianehaab. He was told that there were banks of fog out at sea.
He showed this message to Lockwood. “It’s one of those bloody tip and run days,” he said discontentedly. “We can’t land if it’s foggy there. Would you like to play safe, and go back to Angmagsalik?”
“How much petrol have we got?”
“We took off with enough for ten hours. Say nine hours more.”
“Suppose we go on for another hour, and make our decision then?”
The pilot thought about it for a minute; the weather all around them was quite clear. If the worst came to the worst they could land anywhere upon the coast, beach the machine, and spend a cold night in the cabin. “All right,” he said at last. “We shall be nearly half way by that time.”
They flew on steadily along the coast. Three-quarters of an hour later the don said, “There’s a little house down there, Mr. Ross.”
Alix and Ross leaned over to look. It took them a little time to see what Lockwood meant. Then they saw a long hut, built of rough blocks of the local stone and roofed with turf, merging in colour with the hillside. It was near the edge of the water. Drawn up on the beach in front of it were one or two skin boats, and a few kayaks. Several people were outside it, staring up at the yellow seaplane.
Immediately Ross throttled down, and made a note upon his pad. The machine sank towards the hut in a great circle. “It’s an Eskimo house,” he said. “Let’s have a look at it.”
They flew past at about three hundred feet. There was a beach there, free from ice; on it they seemed to be skinning a seal. There were windows to the hut, glass windows in frames roughly chocked into the piled stone work. There were about fifteen or twenty people, some of them children. They saw all this as they passed; then it was left behind and they rose slowly on their course to three thousand feet again.
At the hour, Ross sent another message for the weather report. Julianehaab replied:
Fog coming in from sea expect visibility less than five hundred metres in an hour.
Ross passed his pad across to Lockwood with a shrug, and swung the machine round till they were heading back for Angmagsalik. “That’s no good to us,” he said. “We must go back.”
The don said, “It seems the only thing to do.”
The pilot set the course and busied himself upon the wireless again, transmitting to Angmagsalik. Then he switched over, and wrote down the letters of the reply as they came to him:
Visibility three kilometres getting worse do not advise you return here.
He passed it to Lockwood without a word. Then he began transmitting again to Julianehaab:
Fog at Angmag present position 220 miles south Angmag request governor’s permission to land Eskimo settlement here.
The reply came at once:
Permission granted do not give natives firearms or intoxicants.
He transmitted again:
Can make safe landing no need search or relief party will fly tomorrow weather permitting and communicate you by radio.
He got an acknowledgment, reeled in his aerial, and turned to Lockwood. “It’s the only thing to do, sir,” he said. “We’ve just got to park here and wait for the weather.”
Alix asked, “Isn’t there anywhere else to go?”
He smiled at her over his shoulder. “I’ve got enough petrol to get back to Reykjavik.”
She laughed. “I don’t want to spend my life flying in circles round the Arctic, Mr. Ross. I think I’d rather go down here.”
They reached the little house and made a wide turn over it, staring down pensively. “It’ll be a funny sort of night,” the pilot said. “But they’re quite all right; they’re friendly people. You’ll just have to look after your things, that’s all. They’ve got so little — they’ll probably pinch everything they can get hold of. That’s if they’re anything like the ones in Hudson Bay.”
He throttled, brought the machine down to the water, and landed near the beach. The seaplane swung round into the wind and came to rest.
They stared at the shore. A little crowd of people had assembled on the beach; one or two men were getting into kayaks. Lockwood said, “I don’t think they’re afraid of us.”
The pilot said, “I don’t think they are. Look, I’m going to go right in and beach the machine straight away, sir. If we let them come around us we shall have to stop the prop or we’ll be cutting their heads off, and I don’t want to do that. We’ll go straight in. Keep an eye open on your side for shoals.”
He opened his throttle, swung the seaplane round, and taxied in towards the beach. Twenty yards out he throttled down and let the seaplane carry her own way; as they approached the kayaks he cut the switches and the engine stopped. The machine slid in between the boats and grounded gently on the sand.
The natives surged around the bows of the floats upon the beach. “Better stay here a minute,” said Ross. “I’ll get hold of the chief.” He slipped out of his seat, pressed past Alix, opened the door, and got down onto the float. He made his way along the float, taking the mooring cable with him, and jumped ashore. A horde of dogs immediately set up a violent barking; the natives surged around him, chattering and fingering his clothes. From the cabin window Alix watched him apprehensively.
He smiled, and raised his hand above his head. There was a silence, but for the children and the dogs. He said, “Chief. Bestyrer. Governor.”
&nb
sp; A man pressed forward; the others drew aside. He pointed to himself. “Luki,” he said.
Gravely the pilot pointed to himself. “Ross,” he said. The dirty, copper-coloured face beamed with pleasure. “Rogg,” he repeated. Then they shook hands.
The pilot said, “Do you speak any English, Luki?”
The man thought for a moment, and said something. Ross shook his head.
Alix leaned from the window of the machine. “I think that’s Danish, Mr. Ross.” The crowd stared at her; there was a busy chattering from the women.
The pilot turned to the machine. “It’s quite all right for you to come down now, sir — and you too, Miss Alix. If he speaks Danish we’re in luck.”
He helped the don down from the float on to the shore, and then the girl. She had taken off her flying suit, and was wearing the white overall. “Look, Miss Alix,” he said. “They’ll want to know about your clothes — the women will. Be decent to them, but don’t let them maul you about. Give them a slap if they get too inquisitive. They understand that.”
“All right. Don’t get too far away from me, Mr. Ross.”
They turned and faced the chief. The girl said, “Taler De Dansk — eller Engelsk?”
The man answered with a few single, isolated words. Alix turned to Ross:
“It might be Danish,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t know that it’s going to get us very far.”
“Never mind. Can you ask him if the tide is going out or coming in?”
This was important, with the seaplane on the beach. From the look of the shore it seemed to be about half tide. Alix looked very doubtful, thought for a time, and spoke a sentence laboriously to the chief. It had no effect at all.
The pilot smiled. “Never mind. I believe I can get it through to him with signs. Hey, Luki!” He led the man down to the water, and went through a pantomime. The Lockwoods watched his gestures, quick and expert. The copper-coloured face brightened with intelligence, a few more gestures, and the pilot stood erect.
