Just as we reached the pent-house, Lindstrom came in with a big bucket of ice; I understood that it was to be used in the manufacture of water. My companion had armed himself with a large and powerful lantern, and I saw that we were going to begin our underground travels. In the north wall of the pent-house there was a door, and through this we went, entering a passage built against the house, and dark as the grave. The lantern had lost its power of illumination; it burned with a dull, dead light, which did not seem to penetrate beyond the glass. I stretched my hands in front of me. My host stopped and gave me a lecture on the wonderful order and tidiness they had succeeded in establishing among them. I was a willing listener, for I had already seen enough to be able to certify the truth of what he told me without hesitation. But in the place we were now in, I had to take his word for it, for it was all as black as bilge-water. We had just started to move on again, and I felt so secure, after all he had told me about the orderly way things were kept, that I let go my guide's anorak, which I had been holding. But that was foolish of me. Smack! I went down at full length. I had trodden on something round — something that brought me down. As I fell, I caught hold of something — also round — and I lay convulsively clutching it. I wanted to convince myself of what it was that lay about on the floor of such a tidy house. The glimmer of the lantern, though not particularly strong, was enough to show me what I held in my arms — a Dutch cheese! I put it back in the same place — for the sake of tidiness — sat up, and looked down at my feet. What was it I had stumbled over? A Dutch cheese — if it wasn't another of the same family! I began to form my own opinion of the tidiness now, but said nothing. But I should like to know why he didn't fall over the cheeses, as he was walking in front. Oh, I answered myself, I guess he knew what sort of order the place was in.
At the eastern end of the house the passage was brilliantly lighted up by the window that looked out on this side; I could now see more clearly where I was. Opposite the window, in the part of the Barrier that here formed the other wall of the passage, a great hole had been dug; nothing was to be seen in it but black darkness. My companion knew his way, so I could rely upon him, but I should have hesitated to go in there alone. The hole extended into the Barrier, and finally formed a fairly large room with a vaulted roof. A spade and an axe on the floor were all I saw. What in the world was this hall used for? "You see, all the ice and snow from here has gone to our water-supply." So this was Lindstrom's quarry, from which he had hewn out ice and snow all these months for cooking, drinking, and washing. In one of the walls, close to the floor, there was a little hole just big enough for a man to crawl through.
"Now you must make yourself small and follow me; we are going to visit Hanssen and Wisting." And my companion disappeared like a snake into the hole. I threw myself down, quick as lightning, and followed. I would not have cared to be left alone there in pitch-darkness. I managed to get hold of one of his calves, and did not let go until I saw light on the other side. The passage we crept through was equally narrow all the way, and forced one to crawl on hands and knees; fortunately, it was not long. It ended in a fairly large, square room. A low table stood in the middle of the floor, and on it Helmer Hanssen was engaged in lashing sledges. The room gave one the impression of being badly lighted, though it had a lamp and candles. On a closer examination, I found that this was due to the number of dark objects the place contained. Against one of the walls there was clothing — immense piles of skin — clothing. Over this were spread blankets to protect it from the rime that was formed on the roof and fell down. Against the opposite wall was a stack of sledges, and at the end, opposite the door, were piles of woollen underclothing. Any outfitter in Christiania might have envied this stock; here one saw Iceland jackets, sweaters, underclothes of immense thickness and dimensions, stockings, mits, etc. In the corner formed by this wall and the one where the sledges stood was the little hole by which we had entered. Beyond the sledges, in the same wall, there was a door with a curtain in front of it, and from within it came a strange humming. I was much interested to know what this might be, but had to hear first what these two had to say.
"What do you think of the lashings now, Hanssen?"
"Oh, they'll hold right enough; at any rate, they'll be better than they were before. Look here, how they've pointed the ends!"
I leaned forward to see what was wrong with the sledge-lashings, and, I must say, what I saw surprised me. Is such a thing possible? The pointing of a lashing is a thing a sailor is very careful about. He knows that if the end is badly pointed, it does not matter how well the lashing is put on; therefore it is an invariable rule that lashings must be pointed as carefully as possible. When I looked at this one, what do you think I saw? Why, the end of the lashing was nailed down with a little tack, such as one would use to fasten labels. "That would be a nice thing to take to the Pole!" This final observation of Hanssen's was doubtless the mildest expression of what he thought of the work. I saw how the new lashings were being put on, and I was quite ready to agree with Hanssen that they would do the work. It was, by the way, no easy job, this lashing at -15deg.F., as the thermometer showed, but Hanssen did not seem to mind it.
I had heard that Wisting also took part in this work, but he was not to be seen. Where could he be? My eyes involuntarily sought the curtain, behind which the humming sound was audible. I was now ready to burst with curiosity. At last the lashing question appears to be thrashed out, and my companion shows signs of moving on. He leaves his lantern and goes up to the curtain. "Wisting!" — "Yes!" The answer seems to come from a far distance. The humming ceases, and the curtain is thrust aside. Then I am confronted by the sight that has impressed me most of all on this eventful day. There sits Wisting, in the middle of the Barrier, working a sewing-machine. The temperature outside is now -60deg.F. This seems to me to require some explanation; I slink through the opening to get a closer view. Then — ugh! I am met by a regular tropical blast. I glance at the thermometer; it shows +50deg. F. But how can this be? Here he is, sewing in an ice-cellar at +50deg.. I was told in my school-days that ice melts at about +32deg.. If the same law is still in operation, he ought to be sitting in a shower-bath. I go right in; the sewing-room is not large, about 6 feet each way. Besides the sewing-machine — a modern treadle-machine — the room contains a number of instruments, compasses, and so forth, besides the large tent he is now working on. But what interests me most is the way in which he circumvents the shower-bath. I see it now; it is very cleverly contrived. He has covered the roof and walls with tin and canvas, so arranged that all the melting ice goes the same way, and runs into a wash-tub that stands below. In this manner he collects washing water, which is such a precious commodity in these regions — wily man! I afterwards hear that nearly all the outfit for the Polar journey is being made in this little ice-cabin. Well, with men like these I don't think Amundsen will deserve any credit for reaching the Pole. He ought to be thrashed if he doesn't.
Now we have finished here, and must in all probability have seen everything. My guide goes over to the wall where the clothing is lying and begins to rummage in it. A clothing inspection, I say to myself; there's no great fun in that. I sit down on the pile of sledges by the opposite wall, and am going over in my mind all I have seen, when suddenly he thrusts his head forward — like a man who is going to make a dive — and disappears among the bundles of skins. I jump up and make for the piles of clothing; I am beginning to feel quite lost in this mysterious world. In my hurry I collide with Hanssen's sledge, which falls off the table; he looks round furiously. It is a good thing he could not see me; he looked like murder. I squeeze in between the bundles of clothing, and what do I see? Another hole in the wall; another low, dark passage. I pluck up courage and plunge in. This tunnel is rather higher than the other, and I can walk, bending double. Fortunately, the light at the other end shows up at once, so that my journey in the dark is not a long one this time. I come out into another large room of about the same size as the last, and afterwards learn that it is known as the Crystal Palace. The name is appropriate, as crystals sparkle on every side. Against one wall a number of pairs of ski are resting; elsewhere there are cases, some yellow and some black. I guess the meaning of this at once, after my visit to Stubberud. The yellow cases are the original ones, and the black the improved ones. They think of everything here. Of course, in snow black is a far better colour than light yellow; the cases will be pleasanter to look at, and very much easier to see at a distance. And if they happen to run short of marks, all they need do will be to break up a case and make as many black marks as they want; they will be easily seen in the snow. The lids of these cases surprise me. They are no bigger than ordinary large milk-can lids, and of the same form; they are loose, as with a milk-can, and are put on in the same way. Then it suddenly occurs to me. When I was sitting on the sledges in Hanssen's workshop, I noticed little pieces of wire rope fixed to both ribs of the sledge. There were eight of them on each side — just the right number. They are lashings for four cases, and they will hardly take more than that on a sledge. On one rib all the wire ropes ended in eyes; on the other they ended in thin lashings. Obviously there were four of them to each case — two forward and two aft of the lid. If these were reeved and drawn taut, the cases would be held as in a vice, and the lids could be taken off freely at any time. It was an ingenious idea, which would save a lot of work.
But there sits Johansen in the middle of the Palace, packing. He seems to have a difficult problem to solve; he looks so profoundly thoughtful. Before him is a case half packed, marked "Sledge No. V., Case No. 4." More singular contents I have never seen — a mixture of pemmican and sausage. I have never heard of sausages on a sledge journey; it must be something quite new. The pieces of pemmican are cylindrical in shape, about 2 inches high and 4 and 3/4 inches in diameter; when they are packed, there will be large star-shaped openings between every four of them. Each of these openings is filled up with a sausage, which stands straight up and down, and is of exactly the height of the case. But sausage — let me see. Ah! there's a sausage with a tear in its skin; I run across and look at it. Oh, the cunning rascals! if it isn't milk-powder they are smuggling in like this! So every bit of space is utilized. The gaps left by these round pieces of pemmican at the sides of the cases are, of course, only half as large as the rest, and so cannot take a milk-sausage; but don't imagine that the space is wasted. No; chocolate is broken up into small pieces and stowed in there. When all these cases are packed, they will be as full as if they were of solid wood. There is one ready packed; I must see what it contains. Biscuits — 5,400 biscuits is marked on the lid. They say that angels are specially gifted with patience, but theirs must be a trifle compared with Johansen's. There was absolutely not a fraction of an inch left in that case.
The Crystal Palace at present reminds one strongly of a grocer's and chandler's store — pemmican, biscuits, chocolate, and milk-sausage, lie about everywhere. In the other wall, opposite the ski, there is an opening. I see my companion making for it, but this time I intend to keep an eye on him. He goes up two steps, pushes a trap-door, and there he stands on the Barrier — but I am there, too. The trap-door is replaced, and I see that we are close to another door in the Barrier, but this is a modern sliding-door. It leads into the clothing store. I turn to my host and give him my best thanks for the interesting circular trip through the Barrier, expressing my admiration of all the fine engineering works I have seen, and so on. He cuts me short with the remark that we are not nearly done yet. He has only brought me up this way to save my having to crawl back again. "We are going in now," he adds, "to continue our journey under the surface." I see that there is no getting out of it, although I am beginning to have enough of these underground passages. My host seems to guess my thoughts, as he adds: "We must see them now when the men are working. Afterwards they will not have the same interest." I see that he is right, pull myself together, and follow him.