“Tornado” Harrison of the United States Weather Bureau was going along to “get the weather” for the various undertakings.
A most important member of the crew was Sandy Sanderson, the cook. Sanderson was already well up on frigid zone cooking, having dished up seal steak patties and walrus goulash to whaling ships over half the oceans of the world.
On this flight, there were explorers who had already battled ice fields with various forms of polar locomotion, some with shaggy Siberian ponies, some with sledge huskies, some with ships of the sea. But now, by ship of the air, by radio, by electricity, Commander Bartlot hoped not only to penetrate the Arctic, but also to explore it.
He would have need of all the aids of modern science, for the Arctic world breeds the most fearful of storms, spews forth the most monstrous of grinding, treacherous icebergs, forever shifts its sky lights in a strange visibility that deceives and magnifies and lures with mirages.
As the great ship of adventure began to rise, the bands burst into martial tunes. Shouts roared from the throngs below. Handkerchiefs fluttered. A little girl in a red dress held her doll aloft for her father on board to see. Wives, mothers, sweethearts waved farewell.
Lee Renaud, looking over the side, felt suddenly engulfed in loneliness. In all that crowd there was not one to personally wish him God speed.
The last ropes were being cast off. The vessel rose higher.
There came a shout from below. A boy on a motorcycle was threading the crowd. “Telegram! Drop a hook!” was bawled up through a megaphone amplifier.
Then the little yellow envelope went fluttering up on the end of a line.
“Renaud,—Lee Renaud, it’s for you!” Lee’s hands trembled as he tore it open. What did it mean? What had happened?