"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.