"You mean come back to life?" Hart asked.
"In a way. These creatures don't really die or reproduce as we do; they divide themselves forever. Sometimes microorganisms are killed, of course, but they don't expire of old age. And sometimes they simply suspend all activity until their environment improves and then they begin growing again. It's possible the disease organisms will resuscitate in my petri dishes."
The men looked uneasy. "That sounds dangerous," Feder objected.
"It is if you're careless," Drexler said. "Greta is not." He smiled at her encouragingly.
"I really don't have proper laboratory facilities on board this ship," the biologist cautioned, glancing at Drexler. "But Jürgen and Dr. Schmidt think it would be prudent to study the pathogen. For science."
"Study it!" Hart exclaimed. "Didn't you look at the contortions of those corpses? It seems to me it would be wise to throw your corpse tissues into that other volcano!"
"Probably we will," Drexler said mildly. "After we understand it."
"This organism may be the expedition's most remarkable discovery yet," Greta argued.
"That's an understatement," Schmidt said. "Its fast-acting virulence is so… out of our experience— it could shed light on all kinds of interesting medical questions."
"And no one should have to die like that again," Greta added.
The group was quiet again for a moment.
"This culture, if it works— does it then become immortal in a sense?" Drexler asked. "Can we sustain it indefinitely? For research, I mean."
She nodded. "Perhaps. I must caution that bacteria aren't always easy to grow. Most don't survive a laboratory's hospitality. We don't know the right temperature or nutrient or moisture levels. I'm trying as many variables as I have dishes and equipment for, but it would help enormously if we knew its source in the natural world."
Drexler nodded. "Of course. We're going to try to learn that." He paused a moment. "You know, all this talk of laboratory resurrection gives me an idea for what to name this place. How about 'Restoration Island'?"
The group thought about it for a moment.
"Not bad," Heiden commented. "But is it tempting fate? After all, we haven't finished the repairs yet."
Drexler smiled. "Sailor's superstition, eh? Well, how about a name connected to fate: one of the Greek Fates, perhaps?"
"You remember their names?" said Feder.
"I forget very little. There were three, I recall, but Clotho and Lachesis have little poetry, by my ear. 'Atropos Island,' however, is a name I believe might work. It has a certain music, don't you agree?"
The others looked uncertain except for Schmidt, who smiled wryly. Heiden finally shrugged. "Why not? It's as good a name as any, and those who judge such things will think us literate. Ha!" Then he sobered. "Jürgen, you and your men have given the Bergen a pretty good inspection. Can you tell us anything more about its fate?"
"Well. The ship's log ends in late December of last year without mention of the disease. It must have struck extremely swiftly— so swiftly that men died where they stood."
"If so, we're dealing with something unprecedented," said Schmidt.
"Exactly," said Drexler. "That's what intrigues me."
The meeting broke up and the doctor drew the political liaison aside. "I'm impressed by your classical education, Jürgen."
"At the time I thought that classroom mythology was useless."
"Yes. And your talk of the Fates sparked memories of my own."
"Then you might fully understand why I think my choice was appropriate, Max." Drexler poured himself a brandy.
Schmidt nodded. "Clotho, if I recall, spins the thread of life. Lachesis determines its length."
"Very good, Doctor. And Atropos cuts it off. Like our fascinating microbe."
Someone was knocking at Hart's cabin door. It was late, the sky dark, the ship quiet after an exhausting day, and the pilot had already fallen asleep. He awoke groggily and pulled the door half open. It was Fritz.
"Two survived."
Without asking for permission the seaman pushed past the pilot and closed the door. He was carrying the Norwegian diary and sat down heavily on Hart's unmade bunk. His eyes were red from reading. "Two lived, and they themselves weren't sure why. They took one of the lifeboats and sailed north. They knew their chances were slight but what option did they have?"
Hart sat on his cabin chair. "Did they know what had happened?"
Fritz shook his head. "The disease came quickly, after they'd been on the island for several days. These two, Henry Sandvik and Svein Jungvald, had been poking into the cave: quite deeply, apparently. Others had been exploring the island. They were excited about making a whaling base here because it's so far south and so well protected from the weather. Then the disease began to strike. The captain and crew panicked, tried to sail, hit a rock and began to sink. Henry and Svein were the only ones still healthy enough to man a lifeboat. They fled the ship and went to the cave to get out of the cold and wait for the end, but it never came. Neither got sick."
"Why?"
"They wondered if the source of the disease was contaminated food. They were afraid to go back to the ship and get any. The Bergen was wrecked and they were thousands of miles from help. They had the emergency food in the lifeboat, water from the spring, and a sail. They left the diary as a warning and a testimonial."
"Jesus. Two men, an open boat, minimal food? They couldn't have made it."
"No." Fritz shook his head. "Unless they capsized, their end may have been slower and more agonizing than the disease. It's not a pretty story, Owen."
Hart pondered. "It could've been food, I suppose. But the timing is coincidental with their arrival at the island. And these two, in the cave… maybe something blew onto the ship while they were underground?"
Fritz shrugged. "I don't know. The two Norwegians wondered that too. But this island makes me uneasy, my friend. The steam, the emptiness: do you realize we've not seen penguin or seabird colonies here? It's too damned quiet. I want to finish the repairs and get out of here."
"They'll try to finish tomorrow," said Hart. "That's the plan. I think everyone wants to leave as quickly as possible."
"It can't be too soon. This crater reminds me of an open grave."
"Everyone except Jürgen. And maybe Schmidt."
The sailor grinned wryly. "They could stay behind."
"No, they're just interested in the disease. Like a couple of damned Frankensteins. Medicine, my ass. I'm worried they'll keep us here until we catch it. And Greta's going along with it."
"She's a good German. Or, should I say, a practical one."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning she's attracted to you, but her future is with him."
Hart was brought up short. "How do you know that?"
"She's ambitious, like any bright young scientist."
"No," Hart said impatiently, "how do you know she's attracted to me?"
Fritz laughed. "It's obvious every time she looks at you! My God, how did you ever get a pilot's license if you're so blind? What does she have to do, rip open her blouse? I wish you two would get it over with so the rest of us could relax."
Hart flushed. "I'm not trying to bed her, Fritz."
"That's exactly the problem."
Hart glowered at the sailor but Fritz seemed to pay him no mind, flipping idly through the diary.
"She would be happier with you, I think. But this is just Fritz talking. I'm on the lower deck, the dutiful seaman. I know nothing."