January 17,1910
“I’M DOWN!” ANDREW CRIED out.
He picked himself up, brushing the snow from his trousers as he reset his skis into their tracks. His thighs were still wet and aching from the last fall.
“Again?” Colin called.
The Horace Putney jerked ahead, its runners crunching through the packed snow. Colin, Nigel, Robert, Hayes, Mansfield, Dr. Riesman, and Dr. Montfort pulled like a team of packhorses. Andrew was alone, “resting.” All the men had three rest periods throughout the day, according to a schedule Colin had worked out. You either pulled or you skied.
They’d worked out a system of calls and responses. It was Down if you’d fallen but remained in control. Avast-ho! if you’d fallen and needed help. Hey-o-o-o! to start the team back up when you were back on your feet. Three long whistles for an emergency. One long whistle, two short, if you spotted a seal or a penguin. And so on.
If you called out, someone on the team was supposed to acknowledge by echoing you.
Not by saying, Again?
Andrew tightened his bindings and began moving forward. The bottoms of his skis had been waxed stingily at the beginning of the day. Now that the snowfall had turned wet, they were sticking.
Some rest period.
“Hey-o-o-o!” he yelled.
“Hey-o-o-o!” one of the men yelled back.
The wind stung his face and blew snow down his neck despite a tightly wrapped scarf. Aside from the wetness, the weather had changed little during the four days, the terrain not at all. The hummocks and ridges were beginning to look familiar to Andrew. He had the frightening sensation the teams were going around in circles.
As Andrew caught up to the Horace Putney, he caught a glimpse of Oppenheim, riding inside the boat. He wore no goggles but his back was to the wind, and he stared with steely eyes into the distance, his arms rigidly to his side and his palms facing up, as if serving an invisible meal.
He’d been this way for two days.
“Me back is breakin’, mate!” Nigel complained. “I need a rest.”
“Keep pulling,” Colin shot back.
“Gar, wha’ d’yer fink I am, a beask of burden? Your brother ’ad ’is nice ski trip — why can’t we switch places?”
“We’re supposed to make up ground during Andrew’s breaks,” Colin replied.
“Nigel, you should be glad we didn’t leave you behind,” Hayes snarled.
“You’re lucky I haven’t snapped you in half!” cried Lombardo from within the Horace Putney. “Or sicced Oppenheim on you.”
“No comments from the luxury seats,” growled Nigel. “An’ keep an eye out for the yeti.”
“The who?” Lombardo asked.
“Big, ’airy creature. Lives in the ice caves ’n’ eats people. True story. I ’eard about it in India or Nepal or some bloody place.”
Lombardo began warbling in a huge voice: “O-o-o-oh, I-I-I’m a Yeti Doodle Dandy, a Ye-e-eti Doodle Do or Di-i-ie!”
“Stop it — ’e’ll ’ear you!”
Andrew wanted to swat Colin for his comment. Make up ground during Andrew’s breaks? That was snide.
He counted silently to the rhythm of his sliding skis.
Thirteen … fourteen …
It was insulting.
Fifteen … sixteen …
One minute Colin was decent and concerned, the next a snake. Why? How could someone who had saved his life turn like this?
The worst part of it was, Andrew couldn’t say a thing. Bickering had no place. Survival was all — feeding the dogs, hunting, cooking, making temporary camp, navigating, pulling, resting.
The boat team was slowing down. The dogs, too. Wet snow stuck to the runners, and the ice was hummocky. Ahead of them, Captain Barth’s team had stopped, both sledge and lifeboat tilted into a soupy mess.
“I can’t do this anymore!” Nigel cried.
“I gotta agree with him,” Hayes said. “This is horrible.”
“No,” Mansfield said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Oh, blimey, do we put you wif Oppenheim, now?” Nigel asked.
“Don’t you see?” Mansfield said. “These conditions mean we’re getting closer to open water. We’ll pull up with Team Two and break for lunch. And watch for that crack ahead!”
The Horace Putney jolted over a sudden sharp ridge. Supplies crashed loudly inside the boat, and Lombardo let out a howl of pain.
The ice seemed to give a little.
In front of the ridge was a long crack in the ice, at least a foot wide, running directly across Andrew’s path. It didn’t seem too dangerous; the skis would easily traverse it. Nonetheless he slowed to a stop. You never knew.
He stepped forward with his right foot over the crack.
Solid. Not a problem.
His team was gaining on Team Two now, the men shouting at one another. Ruppenthal, on Captain Barth’s team, had already set up a stove.
Andrew pushed forward, digging in his ski poles. His left leg slid over the crack.
A black shadow shot across his vision, under the ice.
Andrew tried to react but couldn’t possibly.
The head burst through the crack in a geyser of gray. Jaws opened quickly, baring jagged teeth for only a moment.
Andrew had no time to scream before the teeth closed over his calf and dragged him under.