Skirting the east coast of South America, the Snowden pulled into port at Bahia Blanca, in Argentina Province—and here, van Alen and Kesley disembarked.
"This is as far south as any ship goes," van Alen said, as the tug drew them toward the dreary harbor. "The rest of the trip is overland."
"To Antarctica? How?"
Van Alen smiled. "Overland through Argentina, at any rate, and down into Patagonia. There'll be transportation waiting for us there."
Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the customs shed for their horses. A bored-looking little customs official in blue shorts and gold brocaded jacket approached them, clutching a clipboard and a stubby pencil.
"Where are you from?" His voice was thickly accented but understandable.
"North America," van Alen said. "We're vassals of His Liege Duke Winslow."
The customs man scribbled something on his clipboard. "You are now in the lands of His Highness Don Miguel, Sovereign Ruler and Duke of South and Central America. Entrance fee to His Highness' lands is for you ten dollar American. You have?"
Kesley scowled but produced the fee without question. Van Alen handed money over as well. The customs officer smiled coldly and nodded.
"Very well. You may enter. There will be no inspection of your belongings."