The plane skimmed over the ice for nearly half a mile, then shot upward
in a joyous goodbye to the little group on the ice.
Tim and Ralph smiled at each other. At last they were off the ice, in
the air, and started on the 2,200 mile flight over the roof of the
world--a flight that was to carry them across the heart of the Arctic,
across areas never before seen by the eyes of man. Just what the hours
ahead of them held in store they could only guess. Tim hoped that the
trip would reveal the age-old secret of the Arctic, whether a hidden
continent existed in the land of ice and snow. Ralph hoped that the
plane would carry them through to King's Bay, Spitzbergen, their
destination.
The pilot kept the stick back until they reached 6,000 feet and then
leveled off on their course. The motor was running smoothly, even though
the thermometer outside the cockpit windows registered 40 degrees below
zero. Underneath them, their shadow was flitting over the rough, broken
ice pack at 110 miles an hour. For two hours they roared steadily
onward, with only an occasional word, Ralph handling the stick and Tim
carefully checking their course, for a variation of one degree would
make them miss Spitzbergen, scarcely more than a tiny dot of an island
on the other end of their long course.
They were far out on the Arctic ice pack and Tim kept a careful check of
his charts while he scanned the rolling sea of ice beneath them for
traces of the fabled Arctic continent. At 6,000 feet they had a
visibility of 200 miles and he secured some marvelous pictures. For
another two hours they forged steadily ahead, conversation at a minimum,
although Ralph chewed enthusiastically on a cud of gum.
Tim estimated that they were nearly 500 miles from Point Barrow when
they sighted storm clouds far ahead. Great, rolling banks of clouds were
piling up over the horizon as the speedy little plane roared on its
eastward flight. The air was growing colder and Ralph revved the motor
up in an attempt to climb above the approaching storm, but fast though
the sleek, gray monoplane climbed, the clouds climbed faster, and,
finally, with a shrug of his shoulders that meant more than words, Ralph
glanced at his chart and compasses and headed into the storm. Snow and
wind buffeted them and the compasses swung wildly as the plane gyrated
in the air. For half an hour Ralph fought the controls, a half hour that
was centuries long to Tim, who had staked everything on the success of
their flight. The clouds thinned and they shot out again into clear
weather. The storm had swung them nearly 50 miles further south than
they had intended, and Ralph turned the plane northward again. Although
they were cutting across the heart of the Arctic, they would not pass
over the North Pole, since the only purpose of the flight was to
discover whether there was hitherto unknown land in the Arctic.
For hours they droned onward, both young adventurers busy at their
tasks. Mile after mile of ice, some of it smooth as glass, other
stretches rough and hummocked and sometimes shot with long streaks of
open water, unfolded under their eyes. They were flying very high, up
nearly 10,000 feet, and the visibility was unusually good. But still
there was no land. Only ice and water and more ice. Tim snapped
magnificent panoramas of ice and snow that would thrill thousands of
newspaper readers if they succeeded.
The cold was bitter but with the motor functioning perfectly neither Tim
nor Ralph noticed it. Once in a while they shifted positions to rest
their tensed bodies and their conversation was in shouted monosyllables.
Suddenly Tim's elbow went into Ralph's ribs and one heavily gloved hand
pointed to the hazy outlines of land far to their right. Ralph nodded
and grinned.
"That's Grant land," shouted Tim. "Means we've passed over the heart of
the Arctic without finding land. The big job's done. Now all we've got
to do is keep on until we reach Spitzbergen."
They had flown over the top of the world and definitely proved that the
fabled Arctic continent was just that--a fable.
The northern end of Grant land rapidly assumed definite proportions
while Tim completed his log of their flight over the heart of the
Arctic.
There was more open water below them now and the lines on Ralph's face
deepened, for a forced landing would mean sure disaster. Grant land
slipped away beneath them as they pushed steadily eastward while far to
the south the mountains of Greenland were rearing their white-crested
heads.
Tim went back in the cabin to check up on their gasoline supply, for
they were still nearly 600 miles from Spitzbergen. He had just completed
testing the tanks when a shout from Ralph made him hurry back to the
pilot. There was no need for words. Far ahead, probably 300 miles away,
another storm was brewing.
Tim debated only a moment before he turned to his pilot.
"It's up to you, Ralph," he yelled in his companion's ear. "We can buck
the storm or turn back and land at Grant land. Plenty of game there to
keep us alive and if we can't get the plane off the ice again, we can
walk to the station of the Northwest Mounted Police at Bache peninsula."
"I'm not going to do any walking in this temperature," shouted Ralph.
"It's Spitzbergen or curtains for me," and he turned back to his
controls.
The next two hours were an agony of suspense for Tim and Ralph. Ahead of
them the storm clouds loomed higher and higher and half an hour before
they reached the storm area, the wind was teasing their plane. But there
was no turning around now; only straight ahead for their gas was too low
to risk a flight back to Grant land.
Into the heart of the storm they flew; both white faced and tense as
they faced the final ordeal of their great flight. The gale tossed their
plane through the clouds and driving snow beat on the wings and against
the windows of the cabin. Both men were watching the clock on the
instrument board, with Tim making anxious trips to the gas tanks. Their
fuel supply was running dangerously low.
If only the storm would abate so they could get their bearings. The same
prayer was in the minds of both and whether it was an answer or flyer's
luck, the clouds lightened a few minutes later and during a lull in the
storm, Ralph sent the plane rocketing downward.
At the 1,000 foot level he checked their descent and through the now
thinly drifting snow they could discern a savage, broken line of cliffs
rearing their heads above the ice pack. Further back were the outlines
of a mountain range.
Spitzbergen. Tim let out a shout of relief and Ralph gave the motor the
gun in an attempt to find a suitable landing place before the storm
closed down again. They shot low over the coast line, but the clouds cut
down their visibility and it was impossible to see more than a mile in
any direction. Ahead of them the mountains disappeared in the clouds.
Ralph circled desperately, motor thrumming wildly. Finally he found a
small, level snow field, well down in an ice valley. It was risky but
with the storm and the gas supply nearly exhausted, a landing was the
only thing. The pilot banked swiftly, cut his motor, straightened out
and then drifted down on the narrow field. The skis touched the frozen
snow, bounced once, twice, and then carried them smoothly forward. The
plane stopped under one wing of the little valley, well protected from
the storm, which was closing down again.
Half paralyzed with cold and fatigue, Tim and Ralph forced themselves
out of the plane. Hastily, they examined the ship, then dove into the
cabin for an axe, light steel stakes and ropes. In a short time they had
the plane staked down securely and had slipped the heavy canvas cover of
the heater over the motor. A portion of their precious fuel went to fill
the tank of the heater for if the oil in the motor froze their chances
of getting into the air again would vanish.
Back in the cabin of the plane they warmed themselves over their alcohol
stoves while outside the wind and snow raged at the man-made craft which
had slipped through their fingers. Tim opened their supply kit and they
munched chocolate and biscuits and topped it off with malted milks made
from melted ice. There had been little conversation, but now that the
strain of the long flight was over and they were on land again, their
lips were unsealed and they discussed the trips and their prospects at
some length.
"Storm sounds like a regular old norther and that may mean a week," was
one of Ralph's laconic contributions.
"I'm not worrying as much about the storm as I am about our gas supply,"
said Tim. "We've got enough concentrated food for a couple of weeks but
we may not have enough gas to get us any place when it does let up."
"I'm too tired to worry about where we are, gas, food or anything else,"
and with that Ralph snuggled down in his flying clothes and was soon
asleep. Tim adjusted the little stoves, made sure that there was proper
ventilation in the cabin, and was in a sleep of exhaustion in a few
minutes.
How long they slept neither one knew for when they awoke the clock on
the instrument board had stopped, but the storm continued in full
strength. The temperature was flirting with the 30 degree below zero
mark but in the enclosed cabin they were comfortable. Despite the
intense cold and the angry shrieks of the gale, Ralph insisted on
dodging out to give the plane a "once over." With an inward feeling of
unrest, Tim watched his companion disappear in the storm.
Seconds were minutes and minutes were hours while Tim waited for Ralph
to return. He was on the verge of despair when his chum stumbled through
the swirling snow and pitched headlong onto the floor of the plane.
Ralph was shouting and laughing idiotically. Something in his mind had
snapped under the terrific strain of the flight and the pounding of the
storm.
Although Ralph continued to shout and once in a while screamed in
terror, Tim realized that he was not dangerous and that the trouble was
probably a nervous one. He fixed a cup of hot chocolate and the steaming
liquid calmed Ralph. Words and phrases became coherent and Tim was
astounded by the story he pieced together from his friend's rambling
account.
He couldn't doubt Ralph's story--there must be something behind his
incoherent narrative--something in the tale of terror that had driven
him half mad. But Tim felt that the big thing was to get Ralph calm, to
give his nervous system a chance to get back to normal.
For endless hours he sat with Ralph, soothing him as some shriek of the
gale alarmed him. In spite of himself, Tim half expected some unknown
terror to stalk out of the storm. Could he, too, be losing his senses?
He pinched himself and tried to reason that everything was all right but
back of all the common sense he could call upon was the fact that Ralph
had encountered something far beyond the ordinary. Whatever it was, Tim
intended to find out as soon as the storm let up.
Ralph finally sank into a deep sleep of nervous exhaustion and a short
time later the storm abated. The wind died down rapidly and the snow
ceased its stinging tattoo against the plane. In the gray light Tim
could see the dim outlines of the ice walls of the valley which had
shielded them from the full fury of the elements.
With Ralph asleep it was his chance to do a little exploring, and,
making sure that he was ready for action, Tim slipped out of the cabin.
He knew that whatever had terrorized Ralph must be close for the flyer
couldn't have wandered far in the storm and found his way back.
Tim skirted the right side of the valley and was halfway back on the
left side when he came upon a good-sized opening in the ice wall of the
valley. For a moment he hesitated. Without doubt it was something behind
the black opening which had so upset Ralph. Determined to solve the
mystery, Tim looked at his rifle again, then started resolutely forward.
Half a dozen paces inside the mouth of the cave he halted. There was no
sound of life--nothing to indicate that some Arctic animal might be
waiting to pounce upon him.
Ahead Tim thought the darkness of the cave seemed lighter and he pushed
cautiously on, testing every foot of the way for fear he might step in
some fissure in the ice. The cave was growing lighter. He turned a
corner and stopped involuntarily.
In spite of himself Tim exclaimed aloud at the horror and beauty of the
scene that was unfolded before his eyes. Vikings--great giants of
men--peered down at him from the prow of their galley, spears in hand,
ready to impale him if he moved.
For a minute Tim was motionless. Then he realized that somehow, in
centuries long gone, a Viking ship and crew had been caught by the
relentless north and entombed by the ice. There they had been for
centuries and there they might remain keeping their ceaseless vigil,
until the end of time, unless Tim carried the news of his discovery back
with him.
No wonder Ralph had been terrorized when he stumbled into the ice tomb.
Light that filtered through crevices in the roof gave a weird, unnatural
effect that would have shocked the nerves of even the steadiest man. And
Ralph had already been under a terrific strain.
Tim stood reverently before the tomb of the men of old. It was evidently
the forward watch looking down at him for the prow of the vessel was all
that was in view. The rest of the strange craft faded into the shadows
of the ice wall of the cave.
The men were physical giants--their crude leather jackets still buttoned
close around them to keep out the Arctic cold. Yellow hair peeped from
beneath helmets that fitted close to their heads. Long spears were
clutched in readiness for a foe that never came and eyes stared over Tim
and into eternity.
Tim spent an hour studying his discovery and mentally cataloging all the
details. What stories he would have when they got back to civilization.
In addition to proving that there was no continent in the Arctic, they
had found a tomb of the Vikings.
He hastily ran back for his camera and exhausted the remainder of his
supply of plates taking time exposures in the tomb of the north.
Tim knew that if they could safely complete their flight, they would
have some of the greatest news pictures in years.
When he finally returned to the plane he resolved to say nothing about
his discovery to Ralph when his chum awoke, rested and with his nerves
back to normal, Tim was happy to see that his pilot recalled the whole
incident as a bad dream. Later he would tell him all about it.
While Ralph took off the hood of the heater and inspected the motor, Tim
busied himself working out their location.
"Not as bad as it might be, Ralph," he called. "I've got it doped out
we're on an island just off the west coast of Spitzbergen. King's bay is
about 100 miles, air line, and we've got enough gas to make it."
"Plenty of gas, if we ever get off this excuse for a landing field,"
grunted Ralph. He scrambled into the cabin, threw the switches, and Tim
swung the propeller. Again and again he leaned on the shiny stick and
finally the motor caught with a sputter, then a roar that shrouded the
plane in a cloud of snow.
Tim hastily chopped away the lashings and helped Ralph swing the plane
around so it headed toward the coast. Down the center of the valley the
wind had swept the snow clean and hard, ideal for a takeoff if there was
room enough to get the plane into the air before it crashed into the ice
on the shore.
Ralph gave the motor a final test and motioned for Tim to climb in. The
song of the motor deepened, reached a crescendo, and they started slowly
ahead, gathering speed rapidly, and, just when it seemed that they would
catapult into the ice, they shot into the air. It was an old trick and
Ralph had worked it to perfection.
With the motor working perfectly despite their enforced stay in the
valley, they headed eastward and in little more than an hour were
skimming over King's Bay.
When they landed, both adventurers tumbled from their plane and raced
for the radio station where they made arrangements with the operator to
send their stories to the News as fast as they could be written.
Ralph wrote the story of their flight over the top of the world and
failure to discover land while Tim wove his discovery of the Viking tomb
into a powerful, dramatic tale that within a few hours was to fascinate
the reading public of America.
The operator was still busy sending their copy over the ether waves when
he stopped for a moment.
"There's a couple of messages for you," he said to Tim. "Shall I take
them?"
"Go ahead," replied the flying reporter.
The operator's fingers flew as he copied the messages and then handed
them to Tim.
The flying reporter's eyes dimmed and his hands shook as he read the
first message, then re-read it to be sure that he was not mistaken.
"To Tim Murphy,
Aviation Editor,
Atkinson News,
King's Bay, Spitzbergen.
Heartiest congratulations on wonderful flight and stories.
Effective today you are aviation editor of News with Ralph as
your assistant.
(Signed)
George Carson,
Managing Editor."
Tim's heart leaped with joy. Aviation editor of the News! The attainment
of his cherished goal.
With trembling fingers he took up the second sheet of flimsy. The words
danced before his eyes; they were almost like a message from another
world.
"Congratulations. Your flight was splendid. Am awaiting your
return. No fun sky-larking when you aren't around to make things
interesting. The score is still 50-50. The next time we meet
will be the last for one of us.