Hjalmar Johansen was alone. He had been alone since the Fram had docked in Hobart, and Amundsen had discharged him from the expedition with only just enough money to travel back to Norway. Now he was wifeless and homeless, an immaterial man whose residence was a cheap hotel. There had been reunions with some of the men from Framheim, but drink was his only real friend.
In Oslo, 1913 had just begun. Iced-over snow cluttered the streets, and night was as dark as the Antarctic winter. In his hotel, Johansen studied the unpaid bill with indifference. There was nothing he could do about it. He slipped on his heavy overcoat and checked the pockets.
When he had completed his short walk to Solli Park along the deserted Karl Johansgate and Drammensveien, he sat down on a bench under one of the largest trees, away from the street. With a sigh, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
He was at the South Pole. His shadow was sharp against the flatness of the great ice plain. He had reached the Pole on his own.
‘You have done well,’ the voice said.
‘I had to try. I wanted to be with you again.’
‘You have lived through much pain in so short a time. You deserve your reward.’
‘I always wanted only the best for my masters and my country. But they did not understand.’
‘We understand. They are your masters no longer.’
‘I know I have been a weak man who has not put his time to the best use. I have not resisted temptation.’
‘You have been honest and brave, Hjalmar Johansen. It is a long road to travel, and now you have succeeded. You have been a loyal man with no thought of glory for yourself. We welcome you to our fellowship.’
Johansen heard thousands acclaim him in one voice, with one song, unknown and yet familiar. This was no desolate wasteland. This was home.
Hjalmar Johansen put a bullet through his own head. No more pain.