Fritz was hesitant but did so, crinkling his nose. "Bilgewater!" He looked at the American skeptically.
"We should have Greta here to investigate," Hart said.
"Yes. To keep you from poisoning us." Fritz pushed past him. "I'm more interested in the cave. Warmer, I suspect." He entered the opening. "It seems to go back a ways. Cozy despite the stink… ow! Damn rocks!"
Hart followed him and stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The sailor was rubbing his shin. A number of volcanic stones had been pyramided to build a cairn and Fritz had stumbled over it.
"Someone has been here before us," the pilot said. "They left a marker."
"Wonderful. In a place just dark enough that I could break my leg on it."
"No. They knew anyone coming to the island would eventually come here to look for water. This tube is sheltered from storms. A perfect place."
"For what?"
"To… mark something." He looked around at the walls of the cave but saw nothing. "Maybe to call attention to this tunnel. Or to bury something."
"From the Bergen?"
"Perhaps." He scratched with his knife at the soil.
"Treasure?" With new enthusiasm, Fritz began tossing the rocks to one side, dismantling the cairn.
"It was a whaler, Fritz, not a Spanish galleon."
"They cached their blubber right here."
Once the rocks were scattered they had to dig only a few inches before striking something metallic. It was a steel box a foot square: a simple food tin. The label was illegible. "Look at the rust," the pilot said. Antarctic air was usually so dry and cold that wood would not rot, metal would not rust, food would stay frozen. "You can tell it's warmer and wetter here."
"Science triumphs again. Of course I noticed that by putting my parka hood back, but then I'm just a simple sailor."
Hart pried at the box with his knife and it popped open easily. "No gold coins, I'm afraid." He lifted the object out. "A book." He flipped it open and saw handwriting, the pages brown with discoloration. "A notebook, or journal." He handed it to the German.
Fritz carried the book to the mouth of the cave where the light was better. "It's in Norwegian. From the Bergen, no doubt. A diary of some kind. See the dates?" Hart looked over his shoulder.
"Why would they bury a diary?" the pilot wondered. "And just our luck that we can't read it."
"I can," said Fritz. "Slowly. I learned when I fished with the Norwegians while Germany was in the Depression. It was the only way to scan the newspapers the supply tenders brought out. But I'm as rusty as that tin. A dictionary would help; I think I saw one in Schwabenland's library. We did, after all, expect to meet Norwegians down here."
"Can you make anything out?"
The seaman flipped idly through. "I think it talks about the sickness they found here. The author was a last survivor." A piece of loose paper slipped from the book and Hart snatched it before it was carried away by the wind. It had just a few large words, scrawled in ink. He handed it to Fritz. "What does this say?"
The seaman studied it for a moment, then looked soberly up at the pilot. "It says, 'Get off the island.' "
"Our island needs a name, Alfred," Captain Heiden challenged. "What should we call it?"
The geographer sipped his tea moodily, studying the officers gathered after dinner in the Schwabenland's mess. " 'Destruction' has occurred to me," Feder said sourly. "Or 'Cataclysm.' They're appropriate for whatever explosion blew off the top of this volcano and created the fissure that let in the sea, not to mention the Bergen and our current plight."
"My goodness, Alfred," Drexler said. "Even the Vikings had the sense to name their discovery 'Greenland' in hopes others might follow. Can't we be more optimistic? How about 'Opportunity Island,' or at least 'Destination'? I swear the Fates mean us to be here."
"I would agree to 'Termination' if it means we can end this expedition and get back to Germany before we sink," Feder replied. "This harbor feels as snug as a trap to me, with that damn ghost ship so nearby."
"That's worse than your first two!" Heiden laughed. "You're in too bad a mood to name anything."
"All those bodies." Feder grimaced.
"Hart, you've been ashore," the captain said, turning to the pilot. Owen had already reported the warm beach, the view from the crater rim, the spring of mineral water, and the cave. He'd decided to keep news of the diary to himself for the moment. Fritz was trying to read it now in his cabin below. "Any suggestions?"
The pilot shook his head. "All we saw was pumice and snow. And let's face it, we don't know yet if this island will prove cozy or hostile."
The group was quiet a moment. All had been disturbed by the wrecked whaler.
"Surely the former," Heiden finally said. "As hideous as the fate of the Bergen appears to be, its presence means we should be able to salvage some of its bow plate for a temporary patch. The repair won't be perfectly watertight but should be good enough that our pumps can keep pace with it. Then we can go home."
Everyone nodded. Since the seaplane tender had been damaged and one plane lost, home seemed very far away indeed.
"All this is predicated on the Bergen's being safe to work on," Heiden went on. "Clearly, something disastrous happened here and we don't want to repeat the experience. So let's set the naming aside a moment and turn to that. Dr. Schmidt?"
The German's hands were wrapped around a coffee mug for warmth and his thin frame was hunched even in the overheated mess. "It's freezing on that wreck," he observed. "But for us this is actually good. It makes unlikely any chance of our own contamination."
Heiden nodded.
"I've inspected some of the corpses," Schmidt went on. "The contortions of the bodies suggest some assault on the nerves or muscles. Their fluid-filled lungs suggest a pneumonic disease, something that can be spread by breathing or coughing. A truly ghastly contagion and extremely quick, judging from the place of death: many collapsed at their station. But violently virulent diseases tend to burn themselves out quickly. The bacteria or virus usually dies with those initially infected. If not, the cold should have killed or immobilized the microbes. So I think the chance of catching the disease is extremely slight, though it's best to remain masked and gloved. To be surer I'm having the bodies stacked on the beach and will burn them with aviation fuel. But with their removal and the confinement of our own sailors to the Bergen's outer deck, I think the risks are acceptable. After all, we do have to repair Schwabenland." He glanced with irritation at Drexler, who ignored him.
"Good," said Heiden. "Greta? What has our biologist found?"
"Dr. Schmidt and I took tissue samples," she reported. "I've been examining them under the microscope. Unfortunately, it's a bit like trying to reconstruct a battle from a field of bones. There are signs of microscopic trauma, of bursting cell walls. Also remains of rodlike bacteria, a shape we call bacilli. Similar to plague virus."
"Bubonic plague?"
"I doubt it; the corpses don't quite match those symptoms. It seems more likely in this clime that the Norwegians encountered something new." She hesitated, taking a breath and glancing at Drexler. "Meanwhile I'm going to try to culture some of the samples."
"Meaning what?" Feder asked.
"Grow the remains on a nutrient, such as agar," she replied. "The human cells, of course, will not regenerate. They've been dead over a year. But one of the properties of some microscopic beings— from small worms to tiny bacteria— is that they can enter stasis, or a kind of suspended animation, when conditions are unfavorable. For example, when it's cold and dry, such as on the Bergen. Then they resuscitate when things improve, such as with the presence of liquid water."