"They're like wedding cakes," the biologist said. "Beautiful but sad. You know that something sublime is about to be consumed, or, in this case, melted. It heightens the beauty, I think— like leaves in autumn."
"Things are more beautiful when they're lost?"
"Yes, because the loss makes the feeling more intense. Sometimes life seems to me to be an endless slipping away."
"Well, things seem more beautiful when you can't have them," said Hart. "Sometimes life seems to me to be an endless anticipation of arrival. Like this voyage."
Greta smiled wistfully. "Ach, what a pair we are! Arriving, leaving, never in the moment! Perhaps we should take a lesson from the whales, who are always in the moment. It would be interesting to be them for a while, don't you think? To have every fiber of your being focused on the now, to drink in all the endless sensations, the colors, the feelings, the scents and tastes. It must be a comfort: not even realizing the inevitability of your own death."
"You seem less a biologist than a philosopher," Hart said, meaning to joke but feeling uncomfortable. He'd never met a woman who talked like this. He was intrigued by her mind but not quite sure how to respond.
"You seem less a pilot than an artist," she countered. "I catch you watching things but not in the way the other men do, as an obstacle or a prize. You have an eye for beauty."
"Yes, I do," Hart risked, looking at her. Tendrils of her red hair fluttered against her ruff in the breeze and her skin was pale and taut in the cold. She blushed, then looked up at him, her eyes searching his.
"Greta, I…"
Abruptly, she turned away and was gone.
The Schwabenland met its first Norwegian whaler the next day. It was a large pursuit vessel, part of a flotilla of harpoon ships that would kill and tow whales to a factory vessel or shore station somewhere beyond the horizon. Its harpoon was mounted like a cannon on its bow.
"I'd like to see the dart that's loaded into that thing," said the pilot Kauffman, watching with Hart from the wing of the bridge deck.
"I saw them hunt last time," the American said. "The harpoons are as long as a man and weigh as much as Fritz. The tip alone is as long as your forearm. They explode inside the whale with a charge of powder. It's spectacular and violent."
"I would have thought it overkill. But then we saw the size of those whales."
The foreign ship swung about from its routine prowl and steamed over. Heiden watched the whaler's approach through binoculars and then spoke to a mate. "Break out the flag," he said. The German ensign began fluttering from a mast.
The Norwegian skipper called by radio, speaking a heavily accented German. "This is Sigvald Jansen from the Aurora Australis," he greeted. "We don't get many aircraft carriers at sixty degrees south! Are you lost, my friends?"
Drexler smiled thinly. "We should tell him to get lost. After we stake our claim he is going to find himself in Reich territory."
Heiden ignored this. "This is Captain Konrad Heiden of the German seaplane tender Schwabenland," he radioed back. "We're on a scientific mission to explore the continent by air. Do you have any word on the extent of the pack ice?"
There was a moment's hesitation as the Norwegians digested this information. "No, we haven't gone that far south," Jansen's voice crackled. "Maybe that's where our whales are hiding! We've had poor hunting so far."
"Well, we're going to the ice so we'll keep an eye out for whales," Heiden radioed. "Of course if we see any, we'll think of them as our whales."
The Norwegian actually laughed at that. "Ha! I can tell I am speaking to Germans! We'll it's almost Christmas, my friends, and ocean and ice enough to share. I'd like to satisfy my curiosity about that ship of yours. I think I can find a holiday present if you'll allow us to row over."
Heiden looked questioningly at Drexler. The political liaison considered a moment, then nodded. "We may learn something."
The captain spoke into the radio. "Be our guest!"
They watched the Norwegians work efficiently to launch a boat and pull strongly across. Jansen proved a big, thickly muscled man with a blond beard and ice-gray eyes. He came stomping into the Schwabenland's mess in an oilskin jacket and enormous black seaboots. "Ho, ho, ho!" he chortled, trying to imitate the Anglo-American version of Saint Nick. "Merry Christmas!"
Heiden shook the callused hand politely and began making introductions.
"He smells like a ripe whale," Feder whispered to Hart.
Drexler hung back, sizing the man up. Jansen noticed, and returned the scrutiny. "A political liaison?" the whaler repeated after Heiden's introduction. "Far from a ministry, aren't you?"
"Not far from political issues. As you know."
Jansen raised his eyebrows at that. "Really? I'd hoped we were." His bag, tied with red yarn, whomped down onto a table with a clink. "Merry Christmas." Bowing, Heiden unlaced it. Inside were several bottles of aquavit, a fiery Norwegian drink. "To keep you warm on your trip back!"
The German grinned. "And some Dutch courage to you, my friend," Heiden said, handing over a case of schnapps in return.
Jansen beamed. "I love religious holidays." He plopped into a chair and looked about curiously. "Nice ship. All this for science?"
"We're intending to explore new regions of the continent by air and establish formal claim," Drexler spoke up. "Our intention is to see more of Antarctica in a season than most explorers see in a lifetime. By airplane."
The Norwegian looked at the German with amusement. "Fair enough. But flying doesn't count, does it? I mean, you have to step ashore to lay claim. Politically speaking."
"We will," Drexler said. "Our Dorniers have skis, our launch has an engine, our rowboats oars. We intend to be everywhere, staking our claim."
Jansen laughed. "Yes, I can tell I am talking with Germans! Although the American there— Hart, is it? He has a bit of a different look— he sticks out like a crooked harpoon. Exactly who are you, young fellow?"
"I'm a pilot. I've flown in Antarctica before."
"Flown here before? And come back? With Nazis no less? Then you've got about as much sense as I do, locked in this stinking, miserable, butt-freezing, frustrating, bankrupt, glorious trade of whaling." He turned to Heiden. "It's not like the old days, you know. The whales are all gone. We've hunted them out."
"And yet you're still here," observed Drexler.
"As I've already told you, I've no more sense than the Yankee there."
"Of course," Drexler said dryly.
"Of course!" The Norwegian smiled broadly, scanning the room to see if anyone believed him. "It would be interesting to tour your ship. I've never seen a tender like this before."
"Unfortunately that's not possible," Heiden said. "Most of the ship is off limits because of the sensitivity of our scientific cargo. I'm sure you've seen her type before."
"Not down here."
"Yes. We Germans like to be first."
"Really? That's too bad, because we Norwegians have been here decades before you." Jansen's expression grew harder. "Be careful at the continent, my friends. It's cold down there. Lots of ice. We've learned to stay away from those latitudes." He looked grave.
"And why is that?" asked Heiden.
"A whaler ventured down that way last season. The Bergen. Wondered if the whales had been pushed that far south and radioed it had found a possible site for a rendering station. Then, poof! Was never heard from again."