Amundsen wakes with a start. The noise. There it is again. A distant vibration. His feet tingle with unease. He strains to hear it. Yes, the unmistakable rumble of motors, the sound travelling on the wind in and out of earshot. Captain Scott’s on the move. It’s the only explanation. But at night? Here? Amundsen flings his feet over the side of his bunk. He must collect his thoughts. The noise erupts anew. This time from the bunk opposite. Despite the relief he feels at discovering the true source of the rumble, Amundsen flings a book in Helmer’s direction. The snoring ceases.
Sleep does not return. How can it when such thoughts rouse worry in his mind? The motor sledges, the motor sledges, the motor sledges – round and round his anxiety spirals. Scott will win for sure with such technology on his side. Skis and dogs – how can we ever compete?
‘My improved plan is this,’ Amundsen announces at breakfast. ‘We shall leave here by the middle of September.’
There are pancakes on the plates but no one’s eating them.
‘But that’s a whole six weeks ahead of schedule,’ says Johansen darkly.
‘Well, it will be lighter at least,’ says Helmer in a conciliatory tone.
‘It’s before the sun returns though.’ Johansen shakes his head at such absurdity. ‘Nansen and I set off too early. In the Arctic. We were pounded by the cold. We had to turn back. It was impossible to carry on.’
Amundsen ignores Johansen’s concerns. ‘Eight men, seven sledges, eighty-four dogs. We’ll stop at our depot at 80 degrees for a couple of days, feed the dogs up – as much meat as they can handle – then carry on to 81 degrees where we’ll rest the dogs, feed them up again. We’ll build ourselves some igloos and dry out our gear while we wait for the sun.’
They wonder if winter has got the better of the chief. He seems a trifle unhinged. Nobody dares say a word.
Amundsen continues. ‘I also think it advisable that we undertake a practice journey, to give our gear a thorough going over.’
‘Haven’t we already done that, with the depot-laying?’ asks Prestrud, a little uneasily.
‘We’ll head east into King Edward VII Land, somewhere we haven’t been yet. New terrain, new challenges. It’ll be good training.’
Sverre coughs. ‘The dogs won’t like it. It’s still too cold for them, I think.’
‘We’ve only finished three sledges.’ Bjaaland looks at Stubberud for support but the carpenter merely stares into his coffee.
Oscar feels a shiver run down his spine. It’s been well below minus 40 degrees Celsius. Surely the temperature will need to be much higher before heading south.
‘How about we put it to the vote?’ Amundsen’s gaze challenges the table. This is a good test of loyalty, he thinks.
‘I’m abstaining,’ says Lindstrøm, leaning back in his chair with his palms raised. ‘Not my department.’
‘Come on, lads!’ Amundsen slaps the table. He’s angry now. ‘Give me a show of hands.’
No hands.
Johansen speaks. ‘I think it’s nuts.’ He didn’t need to say it. And judging by Amundsen’s steely expression, he shouldn’t have. But it’s out now, on the table – a flicker of dissent.