"Oh. Freud again."
She shrugged guiltily, smiling.
"But there's more than that," he said. "I go for Antarctica."
"Yes." She put the jar back on the shelf. "And that's interesting. It must be quite a place, to draw you back."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The weather warmed as the tender sailed south. Mindful of the need to take advantage of the short Antarctic summer, Heiden bypassed the chance to get fresh produce in the Canaries— the Spanish oranges were already gone— and steamed on for the equator. Hart busied himself getting to know the two flying boats and their pilots, Kauffman and Lambert. The aviators seemed simple and straightforward men, in love with flying and excited at the prospect of being the first humans to see unexplored territory. In the calmer seas off Africa it was decided to give the airplanes a test flight and the Schwabenland turned to point the Heinkel K7 catapults directly into the hot breeze. The sea here was rolling but placid, like a cerulean desert.
"Would you like to go flying, Hart?" Kauffman asked him.
"Of course. I've never been on a catapult plane."
"Then you're in for a ride. We'll achieve a speed of one hundred and fifty kilometers per hour in a second and a half. Takes your breath away."
Kauffman took the pilot's seat, Hart the co-pilot's. In the compartment behind, Lambert served as navigator and Heinrich Stern, the expedition's communications officer, was radioman. Sailors scrambled to ready the catapult and the Dornier engine roared to life, the plane trembling like an excited puppy. Kauffman checked the gauges, Hart following his gaze. All were familiar. Planes are planes, he thought. Then the German pilot brought the engine to full power and gave a thumbs-up. There was a bang and a hiss and the propeller craft hurled forward, shoving Hart back into his seat. As they left the catapult's end there was a brief, alarming drop toward the sea— a moment's hesitation as if the engine was gathering effort— and then they were away and soaring upward, banking to rotate over the ship. Hart whooped and Kauffman grinned. Toy figures on the deck below waved a cheer and the Schwabenland suddenly seemed very tiny in the immensity of the ocean.
The men took a bearing toward Africa and flew off in that direction, the blue bowl they navigated through featureless and hazy. Hart felt the sheer exhilaration of being in the air, cut free from the earth and sea.
"Do you want to fly her?" Kauffman inquired.
Hart nodded happily and took the controls. The seaplane was not nimble but steady, a high-powered workhorse that should perform well in the cold Antarctic air. He began flying in a broad loop back toward the ship. The vessel was lost for a while in the dazzle of the sun and then became visible again, drawing a dark line on a platter of silver. It looked so slow and stately from this height! Then, toward the horizon, there was a puff of mist. Kauffman pointed excitedly. "Whales!"
Hart brought the plane down to three hundred feet and roared over the leviathans, awed by the spectacle. The beasts were huge, barnacled and battered like jetty rocks. They broke the surface, exhaled with a powerful sigh, and then slid underwater to become racing blue shadows. When he flew over again at only fifty feet the whales sounded, tails flashing in the sunlight as they headed for the abyss. Hart realized he'd been holding his breath. "Magnificent!"
The German pilot held his thumb up in approval.
"I'm not sure I'm happy to be helping hunt them," the American added.
Kauffman shrugged. "God put them there for us."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because he gave us the skill to kill them. Harden yourself, Hart. Those are dumb animals. It's no different than a slaughterhouse."
"It feels different, seeing them in the wild like that."
"Bah. They're beasts. Glorious creatures, but beasts nonetheless."
"No, they're more than that. Greta Heinz should be here. She'd tell you."
Kauffman grinned. "Then let her. Have Heinrich radio the ship. We'll pick her up and chase them. By the time we turn the plane around they should be back to the surface. We can spot their blow for miles."
Hart surrendered control of the plane again to Kauffman for the landing. The German pilot betrayed no anxiety, only intense concentration. He let the pontoons clip the top of one swell, then another, and finally settled on the third like a great seabird. The plane sledded down its gentle slope and came to a halt in the wave hollow. Then they were bobbing on the ocean. The Schwabenland came up to create a lee pocket and the cargo crane rotated out. Kauffman scrambled out on top of the wing to catch the hook and attach it to the engine housing. The Dornier was lifted, twisting a bit like a dripping ornament, and then rose swiftly up, over, the crewmen grabbing the wet, slippery pontoons… and they were back aboard.
Greta came running up as soon as they dropped from the plane's hatch. "Yes, the whales, I must see them!" She grabbed Kauffman's arm. "Reinhard, please take me up!"
Drexler had trailed her. "What's all the excitement about?" he asked warily. Kauffman was already issuing orders to the crewmen to ready the plane again.
"We spotted a pod of whales," Hart explained. "I thought Greta might like to see them. It's really an extraordinary sight."
"Jürgen, you must come too," she said. "To observe them from the air is an amazing opportunity."
The German looked doubtfully at the still-dripping aircraft. "I think I'll see them well enough from the ship."
"The Schwabenland will never catch them," Kauffman warned. "They're too far."
Drexler looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I think it would be too crowded…"
"We have room…"
"Please come, Jürgen. It will be so much fun." He smiled weakly at her pleading. "Come, this may be a once-in-a-life-time chance."
Hart suddenly realized the man didn't relish being launched into the air. He was afraid of flying.
"Yes, come on up, Jürgen!" the American joined, unable to resist. "We could dive right on them and get a real closeup view."
Drexler's mouth set in a thin line. Hart's voice had decided him. "All right." Roughly grabbing a life jacket, he pushed past the American to jerk open the hatch.
"You can take Lambert's spot," Kauffman called after him. "The navigator's seat. Greta can be co-pilot next to me." Nodding wordlessly, Drexler crawled inside.
"I'll replace Heinrich on the radio," Hart said.
They followed Drexler, Greta peppering Kauffman with questions about the instruments as he buckled her in. Hart sat on the rear-facing radioman's seat opposite Jürgen. The German was staring straight backward, refusing to glance out the porthole at the sailors making final preparations. Then the engine coughed to life, spun, and roared. The plane rattled again, eager to go. Drexler's hands gripped the underside of his seat and Hart watched the knuckles whiten.
"Ready!" Kauffman's voice came over the earphones.
Another bang and with a lurch and a rush they were off. "It's so quick!" Greta exclaimed with delight. The plane banked, bouncing a bit in the warm air. Drexler shut his eyes.
Kauffman's voice crackled in Hart's ears over his headphones. "I'll get a bit of altitude and start looking where we saw them before," he announced. Hart began peering out his own porthole, searching for telltale spouts.
It was Greta who first saw them again. "Look!"
"Amazing!" Kauffman exclaimed. "How far they've moved."
Hart unbuckled his seat belt and poked his head up into the cockpit. He could see dissipating mist ahead and a flash of foam as if the sea was breaking over rocks.
"Jürgen," Greta called. "You must come and see."
There was a long pause.