There it came again and other letters in a strange jumble that he could not seem to unravel. The direction-finder indicated south, east.
Frantically Lee poured his own code on the air. He got nothing more, made no other connection, could only content himself with the fact that his radio was reaching somewhere beside the floes of Arctic.
What Lee did not know was that, days ago, his first brief call, “F-O-Y-N,” had been picked up by a young Russian amateur wireless operator by the name of Arloff, living in a village in the Government of Viatka. Just the faint, far signal of four mysterious letters! This call out of the ether intrigued Arloff. He wired it on to Moscow, from whence it was spread throughout the world.
Men began putting two and two together.
Foyn—an island at the gateway to the North Pole!
The dirigible Nardak lost above northern America after a great storm which had rolled down thence—for days all radio communication cut off from the Nardak, and no more word from her. And now this mysterious call, “F-O-Y-N.” Did that call hold the answer to the dark riddle of the lost ship?
The mental eye of the world focused upon that bit of frozen land in the polar ocean.
Though he knew nothing of this, though some atmospheric disturbance of the air ceiling interfered with his receiving, Lee Renaud continued to doggedly tap out his radio call of location—needs—a cry for help. In Siberia, Alaska, Canada, stations keyed by that mysterious “F-O-Y-N” checked in his message, tried to check their answering call across the frozen wastes—but some Arctic interference barred the sound.
Then came some sudden change in atmospheric conditions, storm-charged stratum of interference lifted, sound went through.
It was from the lofty wireless towers at Fort Churchill, an outpost of civilization on Hudson Bay, that an operator got the “touch” through to Renaud.