Ice Reich (18 page)

"Good," said Heiden. "Greta? What has our biologist found?"

"Dr. Schmidt and I took tissue samples," she reported. "I've been examining them under the microscope. Unfortunately, it's a bit like trying to reconstruct a battle from a field of bones. There are signs of microscopic trauma, of bursting cell walls. Also remains of rodlike bacteria, a shape we call bacilli. Similar to plague virus."

"Bubonic plague?"

"I doubt it; the corpses don't quite match those symptoms. It seems more likely in this clime that the Norwegians encountered something new." She hesitated, taking a breath and glancing at Drexler. "Meanwhile I'm going to try to culture some of the samples."

"Meaning what?" Feder asked.

"Grow the remains on a nutrient, such as agar," she replied. "The human cells, of course, will not regenerate. They've been dead over a year. But one of the properties of some microscopic beings— from small worms to tiny bacteria— is that they can enter stasis, or a kind of suspended animation, when conditions are unfavorable. For example, when it's cold and dry, such as on the
Bergen.
Then they resuscitate when things improve, such as with the presence of liquid water."

"You mean come back to life?" Hart asked.

"In a way. These creatures don't really die or reproduce as we do; they divide themselves forever. Sometimes microorganisms are killed, of course, but they don't expire of old age. And sometimes they simply suspend all activity until their environment improves and then they begin growing again. It's possible the disease organisms will resuscitate in my petri dishes."

The men looked uneasy. "That sounds dangerous," Feder objected.

"It is if you're careless," Drexler said. "Greta is not." He smiled at her encouragingly.

"I really don't have proper laboratory facilities on board this ship," the biologist cautioned, glancing at Drexler. "But Jürgen and Dr. Schmidt think it would be prudent to study the pathogen. For science."

"Study it!" Hart exclaimed. "Didn't you look at the contortions of those corpses? It seems to me it would be wise to throw your corpse tissues into that other volcano!"

"Probably we will," Drexler said mildly. "After we understand it."

"This organism may be the expedition's most remarkable discovery yet," Greta argued.

"That's an understatement," Schmidt said. "Its fast-acting virulence is so... out of our experience— it could shed light on all kinds of interesting medical questions."

"And no one should have to die like that again," Greta added.

The group was quiet again for a moment.

"This culture, if it works— does it then become immortal in a sense?" Drexler asked. "Can we sustain it indefinitely? For research, I mean."

She nodded. "Perhaps. I must caution that bacteria aren't always easy to grow. Most don't survive a laboratory's hospitality. We don't know the right temperature or nutrient or moisture levels. I'm trying as many variables as I have dishes and equipment for, but it would help enormously if we knew its source in the natural world."

Drexler nodded. "Of course. We're going to try to learn that." He paused a moment. "You know, all this talk of laboratory resurrection gives me an idea for what to name this place. How about 'Restoration Island'?"

The group thought about it for a moment.

"Not bad," Heiden commented. "But is it tempting fate? After all, we haven't finished the repairs yet."

Drexler smiled. "Sailor's superstition, eh? Well, how about a name connected to fate: one of the Greek Fates, perhaps?"

"You remember their names?" said Feder.

"I forget very little. There were three, I recall, but Clotho and Lachesis have little poetry, by my ear. 'Atropos Island,' however, is a name I believe might work. It has a certain music, don't you agree?"

The others looked uncertain except for Schmidt, who smiled wryly. Heiden finally shrugged. "Why not? It's as good a name as any, and those who judge such things will think us literate. Ha!" Then he sobered. "Jürgen, you and your men have given the
Bergen
a pretty good inspection. Can you tell us anything more about
its
fate?"

"Well. The ship's log ends in late December of last year without mention of the disease. It must have struck extremely swiftly— so swiftly that men died where they stood."

"If so, we're dealing with something unprecedented," said Schmidt.

"Exactly," said Drexler. "That's what intrigues me."

The meeting broke up and the doctor drew the political liaison aside. "I'm impressed by your classical education, Jürgen."

"At the time I thought that classroom mythology was useless."

"Yes. And your talk of the Fates sparked memories of my own."

"Then you might fully understand why I think my choice was appropriate, Max." Drexler poured himself a brandy.

Schmidt nodded. "Clotho, if I recall, spins the thread of life. Lachesis determines its length."

"Very good, Doctor. And Atropos cuts it off. Like our fascinating microbe."

* * *

Someone was knocking at Hart's cabin door. It was late, the sky dark, the ship quiet after an exhausting day, and the pilot had already fallen asleep. He awoke groggily and pulled the door half open. It was Fritz.

"Two survived."

Without asking for permission the seaman pushed past the pilot and closed the door. He was carrying the Norwegian diary and sat down heavily on Hart's unmade bunk. His eyes were red from reading. "Two lived, and they themselves weren't sure why. They took one of the lifeboats and sailed north. They knew their chances were slight but what option did they have?"

Hart sat on his cabin chair. "Did they know what had happened?"

Fritz shook his head. "The disease came quickly, after they'd been on the island for several days. These two, Henry Sandvik and Svein Jungvald, had been poking into the cave: quite deeply, apparently. Others had been exploring the island. They were excited about making a whaling base here because it's so far south and so well protected from the weather. Then the disease began to strike. The captain and crew panicked, tried to sail, hit a rock and began to sink. Henry and Svein were the only ones still healthy enough to man a lifeboat. They fled the ship and went to the cave to get out of the cold and wait for the end, but it never came. Neither got sick."

"Why?"

"They wondered if the source of the disease was contaminated food. They were afraid to go back to the ship and get any. The
Bergen
was wrecked and they were thousands of miles from help. They had the emergency food in the lifeboat, water from the spring, and a sail. They left the diary as a warning and a testimonial."

"Jesus. Two men, an open boat, minimal food? They couldn't have made it."

"No." Fritz shook his head. "Unless they capsized, their end may have been slower and more agonizing than the disease. It's not a pretty story, Owen."

Hart pondered. "It could've been food, I suppose. But the timing is coincidental with their arrival at the island. And these two, in the cave... maybe something blew onto the ship while they were underground?"

Fritz shrugged. "I don't know. The two Norwegians wondered that too. But this island makes me uneasy, my friend. The steam, the emptiness: do you realize we've not seen penguin or seabird colonies here? It's too damned quiet. I want to finish the repairs and get out of here."

"They'll try to finish tomorrow," said Hart. "That's the plan. I think everyone wants to leave as quickly as possible."

"It can't be too soon. This crater reminds me of an open grave."

"Everyone except Jürgen. And maybe Schmidt."

The sailor grinned wryly. "They could stay behind."

"No, they're just interested in the disease. Like a couple of damned Frankensteins. Medicine, my ass. I'm worried they'll keep us here until we catch it. And Greta's going along with it."

"She's a good German. Or, should I say, a practical one."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning she's attracted to you, but her future is with him."

Hart was brought up short. "How do you know that?"

"She's ambitious, like any bright young scientist."

"No," Hart said impatiently, "how do you know she's attracted to
me?"
 

Fritz laughed. "It's obvious every time she looks at you! My God, how did you ever get a pilot's license if you're so blind? What does she have to do, rip open her blouse? I wish you two would get it over with so the rest of us could relax."

Hart flushed. "I'm not trying to bed her, Fritz."

"That's exactly the problem."

Hart glowered at the sailor but Fritz seemed to pay him no mind, flipping idly through the diary.

"She would be
happier
with you, I think. But this is just Fritz talking. I'm on the lower deck, the dutiful seaman. I know nothing."

"Fuck you."

Fritz grinned, still reading.

The shadows in his cabin were dancing. An odd light was glimmering through the porthole. Hart stood to look. "Fire," he announced. "They're burning the bodies."

Fritz came over to join him and looked out at the pyre on the beach. Fueled by aviation gasoline, the flames roared skyward with greasy black smoke, the light shining on the water.

"Heiden must have decided to do it at night and get it out of the way before it could affect morale," Hart speculated. "I tell you, it makes
me
feel better to see their diseased bodies cremated like that."

"Yes," said Fritz. "And worse to know your girlfriend still has bits of them on board our ship here."

Hart ignored the sarcasm. "I want to know what they're doing with those cultures."

"Careful, my friend. It's when you know too much that you get into trouble in the Third Reich."

Hart brooded. The flames were dying down. The diary lay open on his bunk where Fritz had left it before retiring.
Two survived.
What did that mean? He didn't trust Jürgen Drexler. He wanted to talk to Greta.

What were the words Fritz had used to describe her? Yes, he remembered now:
your girlfriend.
Was his interest in Greta so transparent? Had he unwittingly entered into some competition with Drexler that he was destined to lose? Conflicting impulses tore at him. He realized he was beginning to lose his certainty about why he was here, about what his role was.

He slipped into the corridor. The ship was quiet, everyone exhausted from the events of the past three days. He made his way to Greta's cabin and rapped softly. "Greta?" There was no answer. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was ignoring him. He stood, undecided. Wasn't the diary's news important? He tried the knob.

Her cabin was empty. Guiltily, he glanced about. It was neat, impersonally so. There were no photographs, no decoration. A white nightgown hung on a closet hook, the room's sole concession to femininity. That, and its scent of perfume. The bed was made, its blanket displaying a military tautness. Hart swallowed. Was she with Drexler?

He eased the door shut again. Just go back to sleep, he told himself.

But answers might be in her laboratory. Maybe she was still working.

He moved quickly down a ladder and along a passageway. The laboratory had no lock but someone had posted a crude sign on the cabin door. ENTRY FORBIDDEN. There was a skull and crossbones drawn above. Plain enough, Hart thought, but he knocked anyway. There was no answer. He tried the knob and it opened. The laboratory was dim, lit by two lamps on a center table. No one was there.

She's with Jürgen, he thought again.

The awful certainty of it made him reckless. To hell with German rules and secrets. He slipped inside, closed the door, and flicked on the main light. He wanted to
know.
Know as much as Jürgen Drexler did.

The laboratory was as neat as her cabin, but crowded. Two microscopes on a bench. Shelves with formaldehyde jars ranked like soldiers, filled with fresh organisms she'd netted from the sea. Notebooks similarly cased, and neatly labeled. A large storage locker beyond, stacked with nets and buckets and oilskins and rubber boots. And on a table in the center were rows of covered glass dishes. Petri dishes, she'd called them. Each half filled with a golden gelatin and labeled. Some on ice, some on a hot plate, some under the lamps, some covered by dark cloth. Her cultures. None of them looked like anything to him. Had she failed?

He heard voices and footsteps. Her feminine tone, so unique on the ship, and then Drexler's. Low and anxious. Both coming this way. He doused the main light and looked around in a panic of potential embarrassment. He quickly retreated to the shadow of the storage locker and slipped behind the hanging oilskins.

The door swung open and Drexler stalked in, looking impatient. Greta followed, her face tight. They were fully clothed, Hart noticed immediately: in the same outfits they'd worn at the after-dinner meeting. Relief washed over him. She'd never gone to bed.

"I understand your concern, Greta," Drexler said tiredly, taking out a gauze mask from a box and handing it to her, then tying on one of his own. Both pulled on rubber gloves. "But the expedition is in crisis and the risk is acceptable. This is the kind of discovery that can make your career back in Germany. That can change your life.
Our
life."

"Or
end
it, Jürgen. I think we're playing with fire here."

"We have a chance to use this like fire, as a tool. For Germany. For advancement." He bent over the petri dishes. "It's encouraging they grew so fast. Which ones?"

She pointed, unenthusiastically. "There. And there and there."

He held one to the light. "Just white dots."

"Each speck is a colony. Enough, presumably, to kill us all."

"
If
you are careless."

"And it
is
me, isn't it, Jürgen? I who have to culture a plague. I who have to safeguard it. This isn't a proper laboratory. It's crazy, bringing this aboard."

"It's only temporary until we know what we're dealing with." He put the dish down and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Greta, listen to me. Norway will be breathing fire over that unfortunate...
incident
with the whaler. They'll be in full cry, demanding compensation, boldly asserting their claims. It was critical we find something that would offset that
irritation
— throw the expedition in a positive light. Now God has put that
something
in our grasp— an organism unlike any other, a bacterium that seems to kill with a speed and lethality that makes other plagues look like a common cold! And
you
are the key scientist. All of us are depending on
you.
You alone are going to know how to culture this thing, how to study it. The world's expert on... what? I don't know. Maybe we'll even name it after you."