I have no way of telling how much Little America has guessed. Charlie's casualness may be just a mask. Which is what torments me. The last thing I want is to see this trip degenerate into a rescue trip with all the risks and humiliations which such a trip would involve. And again I say this in all humility. This business has long since passed the ephemeral consideration of pride or face-saving; it is now one of cold calculation. If they are tempted into recklessness, and something goes wrong, my chances of ever getting out of here will suffer, too; for the Barrier is not a fit place for worried, anxious men. So my solicitude is definitely selfish. Obviously, the officers at Little America are acting with profound care as to the risks. They could not act otherwise without betraying me and the men under them. .
All this notwithstanding, I wish to heaven the matter were settled, one way or another. I can't go on this way, raised one minute by hope and dropped the next by failure. Every day my recuperative resources grow a little less; and for this I mostly blame the radio. The steady cranking has raised hell with me. When I finish a schedule, I am reduced to staggering about in a condition approaching helplessness. One can put up with such misery only so long, then something has to give. I am sinking once more to the level of beggary.
I shall go to bed now, supported by the hothouse fiction that tomorrow night will find them here. In my heart I know this can't possibly happen; not after Charlie's discouraging report. Worst of all, the cold is steepening: it's close to 60 degrees below zero now.
* * *
Tuesday was heart-breaking. In a matter-of-fact way Murphy informed me that Poulter was once more back in Little America. Twenty-six miles south, or barely half the distance made good on the first attempt, the clutch had given out entirely. Poulter had turned back and was lucky to reach Little America at all. «It's a pity, but these are the facts,» Charlie said. «The men are sleeping now. The car is being overhauled and will be ready by midnight.»
I replied that what they were doing was sensible. Nothing was to be gained by hurry and push.
«Please repeat; we couldn't get it,» Little America said. «John says that your transmitter isn't tuned properly.»
Ill fortune seldom comes unattended. My transmitter was failing. Formerly I couldn't hear Little America, but Little America could at least hear me. Now the situation was reversed. I could hear them fairly well, but they could scarcely hear me at all. «Wait,» I said. I hurriedly checked the transmitter, made a few adjustments, and started afresh.
«No good, but never mind,» said Charlie. «Try to have it fixed by tomorrow. We'll see you at the same time. Don't bother about lights for another two days or so.»
That morning I really surrendered. In the diary I wrote: «It appears that aid for me and reasonable safety for the men can't lie in the same bed. . It was a mistake to allow my hopes to rise so high. . I finally gathered today that three men were in the party, and that one of them was that fine, loyal shipmate of many years — Pete Demas — another was Bud Waite, in whom I have complete confidence. When Poulter and these two men turned back, there must have been good reason for it.»