Part 10

“There is no change in the individual at death,” he said to me one day. “It is simply a moving out of the old house. The life vibration—the intelligence—remains the same. I shall be able by and by to chord and communicate with those no longer in the Physical House.”

Later, when I saw Edith, I said:

“The long night is telling on Ferratoni. He is becoming a spiritualist.”

Edith Gale looked thoughtful.

“If he does, he will be a scientific one,” she said, “and able to demonstrate reasonably the how and why of his inter-spheric communications. If all he says of his chorded vibrations be true, who shall say how far, and through what dim spaces they may not answer?”

You see, we had had time to speculate on a good many things during the long Antarctic Night. Even in an ordinary night, between the hours of three and five in the morning, strange problems come drifting in and the boundary lines between substance and shadow waver. Keep this up for a period of months, without a break of sunlight, and one’s skepticism on almost any point begins to totter. At the end of the third month, if Ferratoni had announced that he could render himself invisible and transport himself to any point of the compass at will, we would have been less surprised than eager to learn the process; and had Mr. Sturritt suddenly declared that he had perfected a lozenge which would confer eternal youth, I feel certain that any of us would have been willing to accept a trial package.

XXI. AN ARRIVAL AND A DEPARTURE.

Curiously enough the sun made its first chill, brief reappearance on the anniversary of our sailing. Chill and brief it was, but that thin edge of light skirting the far northern horizon meant to all who saw it new hope, and a new hold on the realities of life.

The sky there had for some time been growing redder each day, and more than once we believed that the Captain’s calculation would be proved at fault, and that the sun itself must appear. But the Captain’s mathematics were sound, and the sun was on schedule time. In spite of Zar’s prophecy we were all there to bid it “howdy,” and there was not a soul on board, from the Admiral to the cook, that sent “regrets” to that reception. Captain Biffer had “bent on” a stiff new shirt for the occasion, and was smiling and triumphant.

“Wheah you reckon dat sun shinin’ _warm_, now?” Zar asked in an awed voice.

“In New York City,” answered her mistress, “just as it was the day we sailed.”

“Shall we be back there a year from now?” I asked.

She held my arm close. Chauncey Gale answered.

“I will. Too far away from the Bowery down here.”

But Ferratoni, who stood next me, said—speaking to himself, and so low that only I heard it—

“Not all of us will return.”

I did not seem to hear, either, and I doubt if he knew that he had spoken; but a thing said like that creates an impression, and it set me to wondering. Then the brief exhibition was over, and we descended hastily to the warmth and feast waiting for us below.

There would be still nearly two months before we were willing to attempt our journey inland. We did not much care to face darkness in unknown wastes, and our continuous day would not begin until late in October. We were determined, however, to make much sooner the trial ascension for the purposes of observation, and to test the carrying power of the Cloudcrest. By the middle of September our days were of good length, and on the twentieth the divisions of light and darkness would be equal. We decided to make our preliminary ascension on that day.

It was only by chance that Edith Gale missed taking part in this momentous event. She had begged to be allowed to do so, and while neither Gale nor I approved of her going, we had more than half consented when Ferratoni came to our rescue by suggesting that we ought by all means to make the carrying test with just those who expected to undertake the voyage later.

This, both Gale and I declared, was a weighty argument, and my fiancée at length yielded, though I must confess with but a poor show of either filial or spousal obedience. She had been quite prepared to undertake a voyage, too, and even this wild notion had not been surrendered without severe reasoning.

“One of this firm’s got to stay with the ship,” Gale had said, finally. “Now, if you’re going with the balloon, Johnnie, who’s going to stay? Nick or me?”

She gave it up, then, and perhaps she had never been really serious in the matter. Only she couldn’t bear the thought of our going away into the undiscovered lands without her. No one but Ferratoni and Mr. Sturritt were to accompany Gale and myself on the voyage inland, and Mr. Sturritt only on condition that the balloon in its trial ascension proved amply buoyant. He had counted on it from the first, having been with Gale in every undertaking for many years. Then, too, he wished to attend personally to our experiments with the food lozenge.

We were astir early on the morning of the twentieth, and had the gas going and the balloon inflated by ten o’clock. It was a clear winter morning, but still, and to us it seemed warm. Our entire population was gathered for the occasion.

“So you gwine to sail off into space, now, is yeh?” observed Zar, as we prepared to start.

“Yes, and your Miss Edith is going along,” I answered, jestingly.

Zar whirled about.

“Look heah, honey! You don’t mean to say you gwine up in dat skiff to pernavigate de skies, does yeh?”

“Of course, Zar. Why not?”

Miss Gale made a move as if to take her place in the boat, but the old woman, with a nimbleness and strength not consistent with her years, suddenly stepped forward and bore her off bodily, as she had so often done in childhood.

“Put me down, Zar!” pleaded Miss Gale, “put me down! I won’t go—I promise!”

The old woman set her mistress upright and regarded her sternly.

“Well, I dess reckon you won’t, honey,” she announced, “lessen you walk ovah my old dead body! You wouldn’t come on dis trip ef I’d knowed wheah we-all comin’ to. I mighty tiahd sech foolishness, an’ dey ain’ gwine be no moah of it! Airskiff! Humph! I guess not!”

We were all ready now. By a short, stout rope, running from a stanchion through a ring in the deck to another ring in the bottom of our boat-car and thus back to the stanchion again, our balloon was held close captive. Coiled on the deck beside us lay twenty-five hundred feet of smaller rope, one end of it attached to the ring beneath the car, and the other lashed firmly about an iron “bit”—thus constituting our anchorage while aloft. The Cloudcrest was very large, certainly, and pulled desperately in the clear, cold air, but it did not seem possible that she would be able to lift all that great length of line. A little more than a hundred yards away was the perpendicular blue barrier of ice, beyond whose lofty summit we hoped soon to look. Our shorter anchorage was all that detained us, and a man stood ready with a keen knife, to sever at the word. When ready to descend we had only to open the valve above and let out the gas. We expected to be back in an hour.

Chauncey Gale took his seat last. He kissed his daughter as if he were starting on a journey. This inclination had seized me also, but not the resolution so I had merely pressed her hand. All except the man with the knife drew back.

“Ready! One, two, three, cut!”

There was a sharp hissing sound, a sudden upward jerk, and a white world fell away beneath us. The cold air rushed by and took our breath. Then presently it passed less swiftly. The weight of our anchor rope was beginning to tell. Like Alice falling into Wonderland we were going slowly enough at length to take in things as we went along. There were no empty jam-pots, but the swift panorama of the stratified wall was interesting. Ferratoni handed me the telephone.

“All right, below?” I called.

“All right!” came the voice of Edith Gale, “but how small you are getting!”

“We feel bigger than we look!”

“Is Daddy all right?”

“Yes, he’s getting out a sleeping-bag, so if he feels cold he can get into it.”

Gale seized the transmitter.

“Slander,” he called. “We’ve already found two hot bricks in Nick’s pocket, and he’s been begging like a stray kitten to be taken home!”

Up, and up, and up! The Billowcrest below grew small, then smaller, and became at last a toy boat tossed into a snowdrift. Nearer and nearer came the verge of the barrier.

“Can’t you see over it yet?” called the voice in the phone. “It looks as if you could.”

“Not yet! Soon, though. We’re half crazy with excitement!”

“Tell me the instant you _can_ see over, and just what you can see!”

“Yes, of course! In another second now—we——”

There was a sudden movement of the car. Looking up I saw that the balloon bag, now lifting above the barrier, had been caught in an upper current of air from the north, and was being carried inward, to the wall. In another instant it struck the jagged edge of the precipice, rebounded, was caught again by the air current and lifted, and with a wild sweep went plunging over the barrier, dragging us almost horizontally behind!

There came some startled cries through the telephone. Then, from behind, a sudden jerk that nearly flung us from the car. We had reached the end of our rope, so to speak, and had been pulled up, short. Too short, for the taut line, drawn across the sharp edge of ice, could not stand the strain. Well for us that it did not. We were already clawing tooth and nail at everything in sight, and our angle was becoming momentarily more precipitous. The car swung suddenly downward into an easier position, and then once more a white world dropped away beneath. We did not need to guess what had happened. We knew. The line had parted, and on the wings of a thirty mile wind we were bound for the South Pole.

XXII. ON THE AIR-LINE, SOUTH.

It is needless to say that in the few brief seconds required for these things to happen I did not continue the conversation with my fiancée. The reader will understand that I was busy—too busy even to listen to the advice that was coming through the telephone. At least I suppose it was advice—Miss Gale would naturally give advice on an occasion like that, and besides there was nothing else that she could have given, anyway. But as the instrument was at that moment swinging over the side of the car, and would have been lost to us utterly, had not Ferratoni, with great foresight, nailed it securely at the other end, and as we were engaged in holding on to a half-overturned air-boat with everything made by nature for that purpose, the connection was poor, and the advice, or sympathy, or whatever it was, wasted on the snow-clad fields.

For that is what lay below us as far as we could see. The snow, the endless snow, and still the snow. From our far, cold height it seemed a level floor, though we know by what we found later that it must have been heaved and drifted.

We were very high. The dropping away of the greater part of our anchor rope had sent us up like a rocket. We were a bit confused, at first, but presently we faced each other, and the situation. We were bound southward—that much was certain—and at a rapid rate of speed. Gale was first to express himself.

“I’ve boarded a train going twenty-five mile an hour,” he panted, “but I never had to hold on with my teeth before. I haven’t had so much fun since I had the measles.”

“It _was_ rather interesting for a second or two,” I assented.

Mr. Sturritt was examining the compartments where his tablets were stored.

“I feared we might have spilled—that is—been unfortunate with our supplies,” he explained. “They are all right, I see.”

“Oh, they’re all right, Bill. The tablets we have always with us. But how about the sandwiches? You didn’t put any in for this trip, of course!”

Mr. Sturritt looked mildly injured.

“Why, yes, I obeyed—that is—I followed instructions, and prepared for the trial ascension precisely as if we were to make the intended voyage. In order that the weight might—er——”

“Do you mean,” interrupted Gale, “that there are sandwiches in there?” tapping on the compartment reserved for that purpose.

“Yes, sir—or were, when we started.”

“Bill,” declared Gale, fervently, “if we ever get out of this snap, I’ll set you up in a business big enough to supply tablets to the whole civilized world and part of Long Island.”

“I should be quite satisfied to stay—that is, to remain—that is, if we ever get back to it, on the Billowcrest,” said Mr. Sturritt simply.

Gale turned to me.

“How long will it take to get to that warm country of yours, Nick?”

“If we keep on as we’re going, we ought to be in a much warmer climate by night,” I said, “and night won’t come so quickly, either, going in this direction. The continuous day is just beginning at the Pole, you know.”

Gale leaned back.

“All right,” he said, “I’d rather go to the end of the line than to try to get back over that ice-wall. Give us a through ticket and throw her wide open.”

Ferratoni meantime was fishing up the telephone, and after a brief examination passed it with gentle courtesy over to me.

“I do not need it, you know,” he said.

I took it eagerly, though I did not quite gather his meaning. The little bell was already ringing violently. I called hastily into the transmitter:

“Hello! hello! down there! All well up here. All safe and bound for the South Pole.”

Edith Gale’s voice came back joyously.

“Oh, Nicholas! Oh, I was so frightened!”

“Don’t worry a bit. We’re a little ahead of schedule time, but we’re off all right, and have got a clear track.”

There was a brief pause, during which I imagined Miss Gale might be collecting herself after her excitement, and perhaps communicating the news to the others. Then her voice came again, somewhat more calmly.

“Oh, are you sure you’re all right, and how’s Daddy?”

“Supplied with sandwiches, and at peace with all mankind.”

My tone reassured her.

“What can you see up there?” she asked eagerly.

“Nothing, so far, but snow, but there seem to be light fleecy clouds to the south, or maybe they’re snow hills. If clouds, it would mean a warmer country, I think.”

“How high up are you?”

“Well, perhaps a mile or so.”

“Very cold up there?”

“It’s getting cold. We were pretty warm at first, from exercise.”

“Oh, weren’t you frightened?”

“N—no, I don’t think we had time.”

She then asked me about Mr. Sturritt and Ferratoni, but before I could answer Ferratoni said:

“You may tell her that I gain happiness with every mile that passes.”

“Could you hear her question?” I asked, surprised.

“Mentally, yes,” he answered. “Even at this distance there is a perfect chording of the thought, as well as the electrical vibration.”

I knew then what he had meant by not needing the telephone.

“Look here, we’re going down,” declared Gale, suddenly.

I peered over the side of the boat. Certainly the swift-flying waste below seemed to be coming nearer. We were no longer miles above the drifts. I doubted if we were even one mile, and they seemed to be rapidly coming nearer. I looked at Gale. What could it mean?

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “just what’s the matter. We got a puncture when we struck the edge of that ice-wall. We’re leaking gas, and we’re going to be dumped out, pretty soon, right here in the middle of nowhere.”

There seemed no argument against this conclusion. I did not attempt any. The thing to do was to act.

“We’ll have to throw out some of our ballast, quick,” I said, “before we get down where our drag-rope can touch. That would pull on us still more. We must keep going as long as we can, unless you want to try to get back to the ship.”

“And fall off that two thousand foot wall—not much!” said Gale. “We’re going on.”

Our bags of zinc filings were stored in a compartment at the bottom of the boat, under our furs and sleeping arrangements. I lifted the latter quickly and drew out some of the ballast. I passed the bags to Gale, who threw them over, one at a time. There was a slight upward pull as each went over, but still the white surface below remained distressingly near. The five hundred feet that still remained of our anchor rope seemed to cover more than half the distance, though this was, of course, deceptive. We continued to throw out our bags of filings until all were gone, and followed them with our supply of acid, which, without the zinc, would be of no value. Minus the means of making gas, our chances of return were, of course, much lessened, but the needs of the moment seemed all important and imperative. As we drew near the flying surface our speed appeared to increase, though in reality it probably slackened.

Our descent now became less rapid. Perhaps because the pressure of the gas was not so great, and also because the lower air was more buoyant. Still, it was not to be denied that we were drawing slowly, surely, nearer to the white plain below. We had not mentioned our predicament to those on the ship, and we said no word now of the impending disaster. We simply huddled down into our fur wrappings and waited, often looking over the side to note our progress, both southward and downward.

Finally, just after noon, it became evident that our anchor-rope would soon touch, and this would presently drag us down.

“How much does that rope weigh?” Gale asked, looking at me.

“About two hundred pounds, perhaps.”

We remained looking at each other, and though not skilled like Ferratoni in such matters, I could read the thought in his mind. The rope, as I have said, was attached to the iron ring below. I would as soon have jumped over at once, as to have attempted to climb over and cut it. As for Gale, he was much too heavy, and not constructed for such work. But we knew we must get rid of that rope.

“Perhaps I can shoot it off,” suggested Gale.

He drew a revolver from one of the compartments, and leaning over, fired repeatedly at the slender mark. But the end below was touching now, and this made it unsteady. He gave up at last, his hands numb with cold.

“Either I am a poor shot, or the bullets won’t cut it,” he said.

“There is no help for it,” I thought. “I must make the attempt and die.”

“No,” said Ferratoni, “I will go over. You can put a rope around me.”

But at this point Mr. Sturritt ventured to interfere.

“As a boy,” he said, “I was something of a circus—that is—I was somewhat given to gymnastics, and I think I might properly undertake this matter.”

“Bill,” said Gale, fervently, “you’re laying up treasures.”

He was the lightest of the party. We put a small rope securely about him, and made loops to hold to from above. The elderly man laid off his outer furs, and in the icy air stepped nimbly to the edge. Then, knife in hand, he cautiously descended. He first tried holding to the side of the boat with one hand and reaching for the rope with the other. But this would not work, so, at his bidding, we lowered him a few feet further. He gave himself a push outward as he descended. As he swung back under the boat he seized the rope below, and with a few deft cuts, severed it.

There was a sudden upward flight that prevented our hauling in immediately. Then we pulled straight up, and Mr. Sturritt’s hands, and presently his head, appeared over the side. He tumbled in among us and we covered him with furs. We offered him brandy, for he was stiff and blue.

“N—no,” he shivered, “in c—compartment four you will find a brown lozenge especially adapted to such occas—that is—to emergencies of this sort.”

I hastily procured the tablets, and he swallowed two of them.

“Take a little whisky to wash ’em down, Bill.”

But Mr. Sturritt shook his head, and presently seemed to grow quite warm among the furs. Then, closing his eyes, he slept. Gale regarded him fondly.

“Bully old Bill!” he said. “I never knew him to be afraid in my life, or to fail when it came to the pinch!”

XXIII. THE CLOUDCREST MAKES A LANDING.

We were fully half a mile above the white world now, and greatly encouraged. If we could keep this up for several hours I believed we might get beyond the snow barrier, or at least to a point where the cold was less intense. Already it seemed to me that the air was less keen. We felt little or no wind as we were traveling with it, and while we had started our propeller and kept it going steadily it did not add enough to our speed to cause any perceptible current of air from ahead. By two o’clock we agreed that it was considerably warmer than when we had started. The thermometer, too, showed a difference of several degrees, though this might be due to a variety of causes. At the ship, however, Edith reported no perceptible change, all of which added to our encouragement. Gale, meantime, had investigated the sandwiches, and found them not only safe, but packed to prevent freezing. We each took two, in addition to an allowance of lozenges—all except Mr. Sturritt, who stood by his guns, or rather his tablets, and fared on this food only.

But by three o’clock it became evident that we must soon reach the end of the balloon stage of our journey. The Cloudcrest had done nobly in her crippled condition, but she was settling steadily now, and there was nothing else that we could afford to throw away. It was better, we said, to face the disaster of landing at once with our supplies than to throw them away and land finally with nothing. We believed that we had covered no less than a hundred and fifty miles, a distance which I had hoped would mark the limit of the snow-line, but in this, evidently, I had been mistaken. It was still a white level ahead, over which, if we escaped destruction in making our landing (and this seemed extremely doubtful at the rate of speed we were going), we would now be obliged to proceed, and much more slowly, on foot. I determined, therefore, to stick to the balloon as long as possible, even at the cost of some risk and discomfort.

But as we drew near the surface we saw that what had appeared to us a smooth level was billowed and drifted like the sea. We braced ourselves for the moment when we should strike. The chances were that we would be flung out with violence or dragged to death miserably.

Nearer and nearer we came, rushing down on the marble whiteness beneath.

“Do you know,” said Gale suddenly, “it seems to me we are going down-hill.”

“If we are,” I replied, “it shows that the crust is getting thinner, and proves my theory of a warm country. I have thought it for some time, but I would not mention it until some one else—hi!—Look out!”

There was a sudden shock, and a blinding smash of snow that choked and stunned us. I gasped and coughed to get my breath. When I opened my eyes I saw that we had cut through the peak of the high drift I had seen coming just ahead, and bounded several feet into the air. But presently we settled again, and there was another jerk and smash, and another bound.

“We’re hitting only the high places,” gasped Gale.

“We won’t hit many more,” I gasped back.

We did hit another at that instant, and plowed through still another immediately afterward. Then we appeared to strike a comparatively smooth place, for we felt the rush and bump of the snow beneath almost constantly, though the spray of it became a blinding volume that meant suffocation and death.

“Cut the ropes!” shouted Gale, “and let her go!”