“Well,” he said, upon being introduced to Sandy and Jerry, “I understand that you boys will be helping me with my dog team.”
“We’ll do the best we can, sir,” Sandy told him.
“They won’t give you too much trouble,” the professor said. “Titan—that’s my lead dog—he practically runs the whole show himself. Possesses human intelligence, that animal.”
“When do we get to see them?” Jerry asked.
“As soon as we get back to my ranch. I’m situated about ten miles down the Alaska Highway, toward Dawson Creek. That’s the southern terminus of the highway.”
When they had finished the steaming mugs of hot coffee served up by the flying officers’ mess, Professor Crowell and his party climbed aboard the big station wagon parked in the drive and drove away from the air base.
The Alaska Highway was a broad, smooth, gravel-topped road hewed through some of the thickest forests and most rugged terrain on the North American continent. Now the gravel was topped by a thick crust of snow.
“A miracle of our century,” Professor Crowell explained as they drove. “Built in just eight months by your amazing U.S. Army engineers in 1943, when the Japanese forces were threatening the Aleutian Island chain. It was a lifesaving artery to Alaska and a vital chain to our western air bases. Sixteen hundred and seventy-one miles. Just imagine!”
An auto filled with shouting children whizzed past them, traveling in the opposite direction. It was weighted down with valises and bundles strapped to the roof and fenders.
“Where are they going?” Jerry inquired.