For the second time in a month the leader asks his men to vote on a trial run. Nobody will agree to his unnecessary training journey to the east. That is not to say the men have lost faith in the rational mind of their leader. Mostly they put it down to jitters. It’s clear that Amundsen is done with waiting. Unpleasant as the atmosphere around the table turns once they fail to approve Amundsen’s proposal for a second time, they all acknowledge his reasoning is sound. This is a race after all. The overhaul of their equipment is largely finished, their sledges are packed. Clothing, skis, tents are in pristine condition and the dogs are fat and frustrated with pent-up energy. But it’s still only August and the skies are still dark. Amundsen’s impatience is not contagious. For the men, suicide is not so appealing.
Prestrud’s occupying the table as usual. Oscar happily shares the light. There are only a couple of books he hasn’t read from the library that Lindstrøm keeps in the loft above the kitchen. He’s consumed more than seventy over the last few months. He may need to start from the beginning and re-read the various volumes if he is to keep himself amused. He already knows he won’t be taking away any holiday reading to the pole. Each man has a paltry 10-kilo allowance and that’s accounted for with extra socks, snow goggles, spare underwear and mittens, reindeer kamiks, a face mask for blizzards and a pocket mirror to check for signs of frostbite.
Prestrud looks up from his workings and shakes his head. ‘August twenty-fourth.’
Oscar looks up. ‘What did you say?’
‘Our new start date – August twenty-fourth. It’s so soon.’
‘You’re the one who told him.’ Oscar gives a sneer. ‘Said that’s the day the sun reappears over the horizon.’
‘Well, I could hardly keep it from him.’ Prestrud sits up defensively. ‘The information’s all here written down – see!’ Thrusting the Nautical Almanac across the table, Prestrud inadvertently knocks over the oil lamp.
Oscar leaps from his seat as the oil spreads towards him then ignites. Neither man knows quite what to do. The almanac is ablaze and there’s nothing nearby to smother the flames. The commotion brings Lindstrøm from the kitchen.
Prestrud flaps hopelessly at the almanac, seriously considering using his body to save the precious volume. Lindstrøm throws a damp towel which lands with a heroic flop right on target.
With barely concealed horror, Prestrud peels back the fabric to assess the damage. Lindstrøm tut-tuts his way over to the scene of destruction.
‘Is it okay?’ Oscar asks, feeling partially responsible for baiting the navigator.
Prestrud releases a deep breath. ‘It’s burnt right up to our day of departure – if you can believe that.’
Lindstrøm whistles and wanders back into the kitchen. It’s a sign alright, he thinks to himself, just not a particularly good one.