"I'm not cut out for an Arctic explorer," he muttered as he hastened below to work out his position. "If it's like this on the coast what will it be like over there, I wonder?"
"Well?" asked Whittinghame anxiously, as his companion straightened himself after bending over the set of figures.
"Here we are," announced Dacres, pricking off the portion on the chart. "Twenty miles farther north than I expected. We must have under-estimated the strength of the wind. I'll take good care to make allowance for that in the future."
"What a waste of desolation!" ejaculated the Captain, looking down upon the snow-clad land. They were far above the northern limit of trees. The ground rose steeply in places, black granite precipices loomed menacingly against the white mantle which covered the gentle slopes.
Lower and lower fell the temperature. The crew, muffled in their fur garments, were already feeling numbed in spite of the hot-water apparatus. Higher and higher rose the airship, until a height of twelve thousand feet above the sea level was recorded. Yet less than nine hundred feet below was the summit of that ice-bound plateau—the portals of death.
Presently Parsons, the chief engineer, entered the navigation room.
"We'll have to shut off the heating pipes in the cabins, sir," he announced, "or the water will freeze and burst them. The heat of the motors is not enough to warm the jacket of the cylinders. I've even had to melt the oil before I could fill up the lubricators."
"Very well; carry on," replied Whittinghame. "We must endure the cold as best we may. Are the engines all right otherwise?"
"Running splendidly, sir."
"What temperature have you in the motor-rooms?"