"I'm simply tired of that damned American and tired of you defending him. We should never have asked him aboard. Now I simply ask that we— you and I— focus on Germany."
"Don't patronize me with your Nazi patriotism! Schmidt doesn't want to buy time. He wants to build a weapon!"
"To counter their weapons, to make their evil unusable. Can't you see that? Schmidt thinks we've stumbled on a power never before seen. And Germany can use it to preserve a balance of power."
"Jürgen, I don't want to work on this," she said in frustration. "Not with that ghoul Schmidt. I saw him at that funeral pyre on the beach— he was completely in his element. Let's just go home, get on with our lives…"
"This is our life. And you will work on it!"
"Listen to me! These dishes could kill us! What if they break? I swear, I'll destroy the cultures!" Her warning sounded real.
He stared at her then with surprise, a surprise that swiftly evolved to barely contained outrage. His face was tight from lidded anger and his voice quieted with menace. "Now you listen to me, Greta Heinz. You will work on it as a loyal member of a Reich expedition— or by all the saints I'll not protect you from the consequences when we return! I'm not going to allow your childish and simplistic view of things to derail our future! My future."
She looked so shocked at his vehemence that her look halted him. He bit his lip, struggling to regain control of his emotions. His face twisted with the inner pain of self-betrayal. He took a deep breath. "What you don't understand is that I love you," he finally managed, more weakly. "I love you, Greta. And all I'm asking is that you do this one thing, work on this one discovery, for us. For us and for the Reich. For Germany. As the right thing to do."
Her face screwed up. "Jürgen, I can't!" she pleaded. "I'm frightened!"
"I'm frightened too. By the possibility of failure." He looked at her solemnly, his expression confessing his need. "You can't let that happen to me." He took off his mask and gloves and leaned stiffly to kiss her rigid cheek. Then he walked out.
Hart stood still, frozen. There was a small sound. Greta was weeping.
The tears were running into her mask and she lifted her rubbered hands up to try to brush them. Then she angrily tore the gloves off, flinging them and the mask in a corner. "Damn it," she sobbed, "damn all men, damn these plates, I'm so afraid of these cultures— "
"It didn't kill everyone."
Her head jerked up. Hart felt he could hardly breathe.
"It didn't kill everyone," he repeated. He clumsily stepped out from the storage locker. She whirled.
"You!"
"We found a diary and— " He lifted a hand toward her.
Instantly, her anger fastened on him. "My God! How long have you been standing there? How dare you— "
"Greta, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I came to the lab to share this news but you weren't here and then I heard footsteps and, and…" It sounded lame, he knew.
Her face was shiny with tears. "What did you hear? How long were you there?"
He shrugged.
"You heard everything, didn't you?"
"Yes, but I wasn't trying— "
"Get out, leave here now!"
"Two survived the disease— "
"Get out, get out, get out! God, I hate both of you so much!"
He backed to the door, cringing from her rage, and then shut it behind him, leaning against it, his eyes closed.
Inside, he heard her wail. "God, how I wish I could get off this cursed ship!"
Hart couldn't sleep, his mind a tumult of emotions. Always a disaster, every time he went near her. Would she tell Drexler? He'd be lucky they didn't throw him overboard as a damned spy. Lord, he was tired…
Then there was a thump and he found himself stunned. He realized he'd slept finally, and not just slept but descended into the drugged sleep of the exhausted. Now he had rolled out of his bunk. The deck was sharply canted and bright polar sunlight poured through his porthole. "What the hell?" Were they sinking again?
The pilot became aware of loud banging and clanging but realized groggily that it was the noise of purpose, not confusion. There was a deeper rumble of pumps. He looked at his watch. It was early afternoon; he'd slept a long time. Groaning, he stood unsteadily against the tilt, feeling gritty. The Norwegian diary had skittered across the floor and he picked it up and inserted it under his mattress, then dressed clumsily and made his way to the top deck.
The Schwabenland was moored against the half-sunken Bergen, sailors swarming over both. Cables from the higher German ship had been strung to winches on the Norwegian one. Some of the German cargo had been temporarily unloaded onto the Bergen's deck and more— the numbered crates that had puzzled him— were being ferried ashore. Selective flooding of compartments and winching had tilted the Schwabenland far enough to port to allow the breach in the hull to clear the water. Lifeboats had been tied alongside the long gash and sailors were beating, cutting, and riveting metal. At the raised bow of the Norwegian ship a section of plating was being cut away with a shower of sparks. Ropes had been strung to bar entry to the interior of the Norwegian whaler but even so, the sailors wore precautionary gauze masks. Heiden was stalking this way and that, closely observing and issuing orders.
Hart looked for Fritz and didn't spot him. He approached Heiden.
"Why are supplies going ashore? Are we staying?"
"No," Heiden replied. "Jürgen's idea. A cache for next year."
So the Germans planned to return. "Have you seen Fritz?"
The captain shook his head. "No. If you do, tell the lazy bastard to get to work."
"Do you know when we can leave?"
"When my ship is repaired." The tone was impatient and short.
The pilot backed off and went to the stern, looking morosely out across the cold lagoon. Once more, Antarctica had proved a disaster. Drexler despised him, despite their successful flight together. Greta apparently hated him. The clash with the whalers had probably eliminated any chance of cheerful publicity. Fritz had disappeared. He felt utterly alone.
And then she was at his elbow, the hood of her parka down, her red hair stealing softly across his shoulder as she leaned on the railing. He started, it was so sudden.
"Who survived?"
Her question was clinical, betraying nothing. She looked at him flatly. "Well? Who survived, Owen?"
"Two of the sailors," he half stammered. "The Norwegian whalers. They lived, and took a lifeboat, and sailed out of the lagoon. I doubt they finally made it."
She nodded, absorbing this. "How?"
"I don't know. They didn't know. They were exploring a cave, and they came out, and then the disease hit except that they didn't get it…"
"A cave? What cave?"
"The one Fritz and I found. I mentioned it last evening at the meeting. There, you can see it from here." He pointed across the caldera to the crater wall.
She followed his arm, then looked back again. Her tone was still peculiarly detached, as if she'd used up all her emotions the night before. "What was in the cave?"
"I don't know. They didn't say. We didn't explore. There's a hot spring and a sulfur smell— I think it's an old lava tube— and that's all I know. I thought you might know. That's why I came to your lab."
She thought a long time about this. "Do you know what the temperature of this harbor is?"
"No."