A low growl from Ivan prodded Hart from sleep. The dog had its nose up: it sensed something, or maybe smelled it. The light was dim and the pilot peered into the thinning snow, trying to spot what the husky was so uneasy about. Then the curtain of flakes shifted and a huge shape ambled along the edge of the bar. Grizzly!
The bear's cinnamon coat was flecked with snow, the muscles of its neck and back rippling along its hump. Hart groped behind his seat for his sheathed Winchester.30-.30 and levered a shell into the rifle's chamber. The bear took no notice of the click. Then Ivan began barking excitedly and the grizzly's muzzle came up, not so much fearful as puzzled. Slowly it put its nose down and began ambling casually downriver, as if to retreat without admitting it. Hart glanced around the cockpit. The airplane's metal skin suddenly seemed not only cold, but thin. He was relieved the bear had moved on.
Then he remembered Ramona. Of all the luck! It would be less than easy to explain to the village of Anaktuvuk Pass that not only had he used one of its natives as an aerial bomb, he'd allowed her to be devoured by a wild animal as well. Death had not robbed her claim for final decency. He'd have to go get her.
He climbed out of the plane with the Winchester at the ready and began walking back toward Ramona's body, his skin prickling with unease. The grizzly's tracks were huge, like dinner plates with claws. Soon the Stinson was invisible in the fog behind him and he began to turn around periodically, looking for stalking bear. The rush of the river hid all other noise and he couldn't smell or see a thing. Perhaps his own scent would scare the animal off, letting him retrieve the body in peace. "Bear!" he shouted, to encourage the animal to continue on its way. The noise seemed inconsequential.
He saw the grizzly before he saw Ramona. It was a twitching boulder at the limit of his vision, bent over the red blanket and working at the body with a massive paw. He waited to see if the animal might lose interest but the grizzly showed no sign of doing so. Slowly he raised the rifle up, its stock cold against his cheek, and fired deliberately a few feet to the right of the bear's muzzle, watching splinters of gravel fly. Its head jerked up in surprise, grunting.
"Go away, bear!" Hart shouted, without much hope.
He fired again past the animal's head, the bullet kicking up a splash in the river. Rather than flee, the grizzly snarled and reared up on its hind legs, trying to make out this intruder with its dim eyesight. The pilot waited to see if the animal would charge or run, meanwhile sliding replacement shells into the chamber.
Then the bear attacked.
Hart was nearly certain he saw a ripple in the grizzly's shoulder where the first shot struck home, but the animal didn't slow at all. Roaring, it devoured the intervening space between them in a few heartbeats, the beast a wall of furred fury that swelled to consume all of the pilot's vision. He levered and fired, levered and fired, levered and fired, nightmarishly without seeming effect, praying that the bucking Winchester wouldn't jam. There was a click, a signal the last shell was gone, the bear was close enough to smell… and then it abruptly collapsed as if someone had jerked a string and its bones had melted to hot wax. The grizzly crashed and slid, groaning, its angry muzzle exhaling one last cloud of steaming air. Then it was still.
Hart went to Ramona. It was difficult to tell which damage had been done by the fall and which by the bear. The blanket was filthy and half unwrapped, a dangling arm scuffed or bitten. Kneeling, he folded the arm back inside and re-covered the body, retying the ropes holding the shroud in place. Then, hoisting the deadweight over his shoulder, he staggered slowly back to the plane.
The husky was scratching to get out. Hart let him, to stand guard, and then pushed Ramona into the cockpit and clambered in beside her. He'd refused to do this in Fairbanks but now the body didn't bother him. Still comforting lonely men. Cradling the rifle in his arms and carefully leaning against the opposite door of the plane, he dozed. This time he didn't dream.
He woke to a brilliant morning. The overcast was breaking up and the sun blazed with enough heat to make the snow sweat. He climbed out stiffly, drank from the river, and chewed on a piece of jerky. No bears were to be seen, or anything else for that matter. The treeless whiteness of the scene made him think of the moon and he tried to guess how far it was to Anaktuvuk. The natives knew he was due the day before and radios would be crackling back and forth.
Prudence suggested waiting so long as snowmelt didn't push up the John River. He watched the old dog trot down the sandbar, sniff at the bear, and then come quickly back to settle down under the broken wing of the plane. In clearing weather Hart felt even stupider for having crashed his Stinson. He should have turned back to Fairbanks or Bettles, Ramona or no.
He joined the dog and dozed again, then woke shortly after noon to the sound of an engine. A plane! It came up valley out of the south, the glint of metal growing. Karl Popper's orange and silver bush plane, by the look of it. It roared low over the sandbar and circled once, a passenger peering out the side window, and then went on toward Anaktuvuk.
Popper would put down at the village and walk in with the Eskimos to fetch Hart and the cargo. The pilot waited. Clouds drifted in again, first white and then gray. The sun was shut away, the air cooled and rain began to spatter down. Uneasily, he noticed that the river had come up almost a foot with the warming weather. The bar had shrunk and the willows on the far shores were starting to be tugged by the rising current. If he waited too long it would be too high to ford. He wished the Eskimos would show up.
It started raining harder, washing away the thin snow. Hart crouched under the wing, considering. Finally he decided to cross over and start walking up the valley. He was getting awfully hungry anyway.
The rifle went over his shoulder again and the remaining jerky in a pocket. Then he picked up Ramona. The feeling of unwanted responsibility was beginning to be replaced by the companionship of shared experience. She was now too stiff to drape over his other shoulder and so he had to carry her rigid form in his arms, like a log. "You're gaining weight," he said with a grunt.
After crossing the river, he'd gone only a few hundred yards when Ivan let out a low growl. Another grizzly? Hart set Ramona down carefully and unshouldered his rifle. The brush ahead of him moved. He levered a fresh shell into the chamber and aimed.
"Are you already so hungry that I look like food to you?" a voice called out. Shrouded in furs, a figure emerged from the brush and slogged toward him. Two others followed farther behind.
Hart lowered his rifle. "I thought you might be a bear."
"Ah, a white man," the Eskimo said. "When they come to hunt, nothing is safe. I hide in Anaktuvuk." He put his arms up over his face in mock fear.
"I'm hauling cargo, not hunting," Hart said sheepishly. He told the Eskimo his name.
"Isaac Alatak," the Eskimo replied. "And I'm told by Mr. Popper you've stopped hauling and started hunting, judging by what he saw from his airplane. Is not one bear enough for you?"
Hart accepted the inevitable ribbing. "More than enough."
The second man caught up to them. "I've heard of dedicated sportsmen, but cracking your plane up to get at a grizzly is a bit much, Hart." It was Popper. "I think you need another hobby."
"Or another career. Thanks for coming to fetch me, Karl."
"Well, I was paid. For a change." He jerked his head toward the third figure.
That other man hung back a few steps and said nothing, preferring to observe the soaked pilot.
"I'm bringing a body to Anaktuvuk," Hart said. "Ramona Umiat. She died of TB." He pointed to the form lying in the mud at his feet. Startled, he saw part of the blanket had unwrapped again and her arm had once more come free. "She's had a rough time, I'm afraid."
The Eskimo squatted down and touched the still form. Then he crossed himself. "What have you done with my sister, white man?"
Hart winced at the relationship. "I'm sorry. I got caught in the storm. Couldn't make the village."
The Eskimo looked mournfully at the battered body. "Foolish day to fly in, white man. Foolish time for such a sacred responsibility. You need to learn caution. Always the white man is in such a hurry."
Hart opened his mouth, then said nothing.
"I don't think Mr. Hart crashed on purpose," the third man said. Hart was surprised. From the tone of his voice it was obvious he was not Eskimo, or American either. He had a German accent. "Perhaps he was prudent enough not to fly your sister into a mountainside. Sprechen sie Deutsch, Hart?"
"Some, from my youth," the pilot replied in German. "I grew up in a German settlement in Montana."
"Yes, I've checked your ancestry," the stranger said, continuing in German.
The reply gave Hart pause. "And you are… German? You come here to climb?" Sometimes krauts came to Alaska for the mountains. They were nuts for mountains.
"An opportunity," the stranger replied. "I'd planned to contact you in Fairbanks but you'd just left. Despite the weather. A decision that seems counter to your reputation."
"Reputation?"
"Antarctica."
There was silence a moment. "The weather was fine when I left," Hart said. "When you fly you have to make decisions."
"I respect that," the stranger said.
Alatak produced a small hatchet and began slashing at the willows. "I'll make a sling for my sister while you practice your German." Popper bent to help but Hart, mystified by the stranger, made no move. He was too numb.
When it became apparent he wasn't going to speak, the German did- this time in English. "My name is Otto Kohl. I'm a German-American trade representative. I've come halfway around the world to speak with you. When Anaktuvuk radioed that your plane was missing I feared I'd wasted my time on a dead man. Mr. Popper, though, convinced me to hire his plane and have a look for you. Lucky for you that I did."
"I would've been all right."
"Perhaps." Kohl looked away down valley. "Could you show me your plane? I'd like to make a complete report."
Hart was taken aback. "A report? You from the government?"
"Not exactly. Is your plane near here?"
Hart looked at Alatak. "Go on," the Eskimo grumbled, knowing it wasn't far. "We'll finish here."
Wordlessly, Hart led the way back through the brush to the bank. The river was rising swiftly and the bar was almost gone. A channel had opened under the fuselage and the crippled Stinson was rocking in the flow. As they watched, it slid a few feet downstream. "I'm going to lose my whole damn cargo."
"Yes," Kohl observed. "Fortune is curious, isn't it?"
The pilot turned to study his companion more closely. He looked near fifty, with a trim mustache, pale, soft skin, and an irritating self-assurance for such wild surroundings. Well, it wasn't his plane that had been lost.
They stood there a moment in silence, rain drumming on their heads.
"Who the hell are you?"
Kohl smiled. "I'm based in Washington but represent the German government." He pointed to the plane, beginning to tilt. "I could report to the Reich that you incautiously flew into bad weather and landed poorly, exhibiting neither courage nor wisdom." He waited for Hart to react, but the pilot said nothing. "Or I could report you have a knack for survival in polar weather conditions, even saving a passenger from a grizzly bear, albeit a dead passenger."
"Why should I care what you report?"
"Let me be blunt," the German replied. "Your misfortune may prove to be our opportunity because it may predispose you to accept what I'm about to offer. You're well aware that my government is controversial. You may be aware it has limited experience in Antarctic exploration: Germany has yet to make any lengthy presence there, unlike the British or Norwegians or you Americans with Admiral Byrd. You're certainly aware that under National Socialism, my country is moving quickly to claim her rightful place as an equal in the rank of nations. You, on the other hand, are in financial difficulty, I suspect. You've just lost your primary possession. You lost some of your reputation as a flier in 1934 and this incident will hardly restore it. Yet I'm here to offer you another chance. To be part of history."
Hart stood watching his plane. As if drawn by a giant unseen hand, it sank toward the center of the channel.
"Why me?"
"Simple. You're an expert at Antarctic flying. You're what we need."
"I was fired in the Antarctic. My boss said I chickened."
"And did you?"
There was a silence.
"I've done some checking," said Kohl. "You were fired for caution. We Germans can be determined, even headstrong, but we know prudence is a virtue as well. In any event you know about Antarctic oils, fuels, clothing, and navigation."
"Wait a minute," Hart said, still absorbing what the German was saying. "I fly my plane into the ground and you still want to hire me?"
Kohl shrugged. "You strike me as a man who accepts the options he has and chooses well. And, frankly, for us your situation is ideal. We want to make clear to the world that our mission is one of peaceful exploration. As an American, a foreigner, your presence will reinforce that." The German eyed him intently. "In your present situation, may I assume politics are a nonissue?"
"I don't follow politics." Hart tried to think. He hadn't made up his mind about the Nazis. Hitler was a dictator, certainly, but he'd put Germany to work. Lindbergh had visited and come away impressed. But Hart knew why Kohl had come all the way to Alaska. Not everyone wanted to work for the Reich. Not everyone had forgotten the Great War. "I'll think about it."
"Certainly. Think all you want, as we hike back to Anaktuvuk. Think tonight as you eat, and then sleep. Think, and ask me any question you care to. And then you must decide because Mr. Popper and I are returning to Fairbanks in the morning. We have room for an employee."
Kohl smiled, but there was little warmth in it.
They went back to where the Eskimo had slung Ramona between willow branches. The German and Hart took one end, Popper and the Eskimo the other. The dog led off. As always the tundra was miserable walking, spongy and ankle-twisting, but the trudge was warming.
"This expedition, will it be reported?" Hart asked Kohl in German.
"Reported?"
"In the newspapers. If it succeeds, will the world know about it?"
"The men who make it will be as famous as they wish," the German replied. "As successful as they dare."
They reached Anaktuvuk after midnight, the tethered huskies of the village barking excitedly at Ivan's approach. Despite the late hour half the village came out to meet them, taking Ramona's battered body away for cleaning and wrapping and final rest. Her condition caused some looks at the pilot but no one spoke. Word of the bear had spread.
Hart took Popper aside. "This guy is offering me a job in Germany," he said. "What do you think of him?"
Popper shrugged and spat. "He paid me in cash."
Later, at the mission house, the two bush pilots ate some soup and bread and warmed themselves in front of the stove. Hart thought about what Kohl had said. The German's arrival seemed so well timed. He wondered if Elmer's angel was real after all.
"Sorry about your plane, Hart," Popper said.
"It's simpler in Antarctica," Hart said drowsily. He was trying to resummon that world.
"What do you mean?"
"No one lives there. No one stays there. It has no memory."
"No memory? Bah! Every place has history."
"No," Hart said. "Here there's history, because people are here to remember, but not there. It has no past. Only a great, yawning now."
"Sounds too simple to me."
Owen smiled. "Maybe you're right." He sighed. "But when everything is now, you can always start over."