William Dietrich - Ice Reich

Still, Hart didn't see in Greta's manner an emotional commitment to the German. There was none of the easy partnership of a romance or affair or betrothal. Her fingers were empty of rings and she retained the cautious aloofness attractive women sometimes adopt as a necessary shield. Drexler was clearly seeking an intimacy beyond simple friendship but she had a way of both admitting him and yet putting him off. All this was the subject of idle gossip, of course- it was assumed the presence of both on board was far from coincidental- yet no one claimed firm knowledge. The couple deflected curiosity.

Drexler's behavior persuaded Hart that he should keep a careful distance from Greta. If he was going to rehabilitate his reputation the last thing he needed was a rivalry with the expedition's political liaison- or to get his mind wrapped around another woman. Yet curiosity nagged at him.

One evening he took Drexler's intended seat next to hers in order to see what would happen. She looked at him curiously, but not without welcome. "Hello."

Hart smiled. "It looks like you've gotten your sea legs." He nodded toward her full plate.

"And you appear to be finding your way as well." She studied him.

His throat suddenly felt dry, but he managed: "Well, it isn't that big a ship."

"Yes. And yet, I haven't seen that much of you."

"Everyone is busy and I'm trying not to interfere. You seem… occupied."

She looked up at the dark circle of a porthole, the lift of her chin showing the white curve of her neck. "Not all the time," she said, trying to keep her tone light.

They let that hang for a moment.

"So, have you gotten things- the expedition, I mean- in proper order?" she finally asked.

"Actually my contribution has been pretty minimal. I've done my best, but the cliches about German thoroughness appear to be true."

"Really?" She smiled at that. "How does it feel to be surrounded by meticulous Germans?"

"Depends on the German."

"Of course." She sipped some water, studying him over the rim of the glass. "Well, I suspect we benefit from the perspective of an outsider. There's talk about you on the ship, you know. Your past. Why you're here. I have my own theory."

"Which is?"

"I think you're a deliberate adventurer. Undaunted by the prospect of death but afraid of life. Fond of going to remote, lonely places." She waited for his reaction.

"Hmmm. That might describe anyone on this ship. Including you."

She laughed. "That's the problem with Professor Freud's psychoanalysis. It's like a boomerang, coming back at the analyst."

"Yes, but still, it's fun to form conjectures. I must admit, I've been mostly stymied in your case."

She smiled. "How so?"

"Well- " Hart paused, afraid he was venturing onto unsafe ground. "Your presence on this ship is… puzzling. A lone woman among so many men, willing to risk everything for some scientific data. One wonders- "

"What?"

"I only meant that you're female. That's good, admirable, but I can't help wondering how you came to be here."

"I was invited, like you."

"I know that, yes, of course…"

"For my expertise, Owen. Like you." She sounded annoyed.

"I didn't mean…"

Drexler came in then, his cheeks flushed from some mission outside in the cold. He moved to the table where Greta was and then stopped, clearly a bit nonplussed at Hart's presence. Greta looked up at him with exasperation, as if he'd undercut her point by appearing. Then she studied her salad, poking it with her fork. "I am unclear what you did mean," she said quietly to Hart.

Quickly masking his own discomfort, Drexler moved to a smaller table and took a seat next to Schmidt, pretending a hearty companionship. Greta glanced over at the blond German, who was studiously ignoring her.

Damn.

"You'd better eat that salad," Hart told her, his voice a bit rougher than he intended. "We'll be out of greens in another week."

"Yes, of course." She trimmed a small leaf with her knife and lifted it to her lips, slipping it in. Then she suddenly turned to him. "You must forgive me. I'm still finding my way aboard and am a bit awkward at it, I'm afraid." She abruptly stood up, gathering her dishes. "This motion destroys my appetite."

Hart started to stand too, anxious that he'd spoiled her supper, but as soon as he did so he knocked over his water glass, sending a small flood toward the pilot Kauffman. He lunged. "I'm sorry, Reinhard!" He groped for his napkin, glancing around in time to see Greta leave the galley. Drexler looked after her as she disappeared but didn't move.

Well, thought Hart. Next time I'll sit elsewhere.

After dinner Drexler paused at Hart's table. "No luck? Or no skill?"

Each of the expedition leaders was developing roles in the ship's new social order. Heiden was friendly but professionally distant: appropriately so, Hart judged. The success of the expedition was ultimately the captain's responsibility and so he was trying to cultivate an air of shared competence, not camaraderie. He had a Prussian briskness.

Drexler's manner was one of energetic dedication, an officious drive he probably thought reasonably masked his interest in Greta. Hart had heard little of this Schutzstaffel, or SS, but it clearly was an elite that drew deference from Germans. Jurgen enjoyed Goring's influence and Heiden's ear. Hart was impressed by his mind- Drexler seemed to retain any statistic about the Dorniers that was thrown at him- and his ability to put their voyage in grand historical context. "This is a first step toward making Germany a true global power!" he would exclaim with almost boyish enthusiasm. He conferred for long hours with Heiden, the two men bent over old Antarctic charts.

Alfred Feder, the geographer, was conversational, exhibiting a genuine curiosity about Antarctica. What had been the weather pattern? How cold in summer and winter? Which food, if any, could be hunted or fished for? What did the climate do to storage of supplies? Was fire a serious danger because of dry air? Yes, and of course the lack of unfrozen water! How did the British or Americans melt enough to sustain a base? Hart answered as straightforwardly as he could, not pretending knowledge when he didn't have it.

Schmidt, the ship's doctor, was more of a mystery. He had a sour closeness about him, seeming to tolerate people more than enjoy them. He smoked like a chimney and only dabbed at his food. His sallow skin reminded Hart of oiled paper. The physician held a clinic for the sailors two hours each day, receiving the usual litany of complaints ranging from seasickness to the inevitable venereal disease resulting from Hamburg shore leave. He quickly earned a reputation for being gruff and ungentle. "He's got the bedside manner of a veterinarian," the sailors reported.

Hart continued to run into Greta but she passed by with a distracted air, which satisfied him. In truth, he was a bit intimidated by her. Once he caught her looking at him, her expression opaque, and could think of nothing intelligent to say.

Then she approached again.

The pilot was sitting on a hatch cover, enjoying a watery sun in a hazy sky. To occupy himself he'd found some line and was splicing two rope ends together.

"You do that as if from long experience," came a female voice. He looked up, startled. She was carrying binoculars and a book about seabirds, the wind pressing one side of her coat against her figure and snapping the other end free like a flag. She pointed to his splices. "Were you a seaman as well as a pilot?"

She'd caught him by surprise, and he hesitated a moment before replying. "No, Fritz taught me." Her skin was rosy from the unaccustomed midwinter sun and wind, he noticed. "I'm a landlubber."

"A what?"

"It's an American word for someone who's never been to sea. I grew up in Montana, a mountain state. I'd never been on the ocean until my first trip south."