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CHAPTER TEN
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in which the reader makes the acquaintance of
Admiral Kusaki, and the crew of the Rage is threatened with starvation
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Again there were fogs, grey clouds, a chilly sea, again one wore a fur
coat on watch. One frosty day we were proceeding on course when suddenly
there was a deafening boom. It wasn't quite an explosion, nor quite a
thunderbolt-we just couldn't place it.
We listened: there was a silence, then another boom. And silence again.
I noted the direction and steered the Rage towards the puzzling phenomenon.
Soon we sighted a kind of floating hill on the horizon. When we approached
it, we saw it was not a hill at all but a cloud of dense fog. Suddenly
a column of water rose from its centre and a hollow rumble shook the Rage
from top to bottom.
It was rather scary, but curiosity and the desire to enrich science by
the solution of so puzzling a phenomenon won over caution, and I edged
the yacht into the fog. As we advanced, I noticed the icicles dropping
from our rigging and the temperature rising. I dipped my hand in the water
overboard, and it was almost hot. Then I saw a vague shape ahead, something
like a huge chest. Suddenly the chest heaved and gave a huge "ah-choo!"
Then I understood. A sperm-whale had blundered into these cold climes
from the Pacific, caught cold and was now down with flu, running a high
temperature and sneezing. That's why the water was warm.
Of course we could have used the chance and harpooned the whale, but it
seemed a shame to take advantage of a sick animal. That is against my
rules. What I did instead was to put a good dose of aspirin on a shovel
and aim it right into the whale's mouth. But the wind blew up that moment,
a wave heaved the boat and I missed. Instead of the mouth the aspirin
got into the whale's blowhole, his nostrils, so to speak.
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I introduced myself. They did so too. It appeared they were representatives of an international committee for prevention of the dying-out of whales. And they proceeded to interrogate me as to my origins, destination, purpose, etc., asking whether I had seen any whales and if so, what measures I had taken to prevent them from dying out.
Well, I explained that mine was a sporting global cruise, that I had met a sick sperm-whale and rendered it the aid medicine prescribes for such cases.
They heard me out, whispered among themselves and retired to confer. We sat there conferring too. "They'll give us a commendation," Lom said. "Perhaps even a medal."
"What do I want with a medal," Fooks objected. "I'd rather have a money bonus."
I kept my own counsel, knowing it was always better to be prepared for the worst.
An hour passed, then another, and a third. We felt bored and nervous. So I decided to reconnoitre. They let me in. I sat in a corner and listened to the debates. At that moment a representative of an oriental power was in the middle of his speech.
"Our common aim is prevention of the dying out of whales. How are we to achieve this noble aim, I ask you? In my opinion, the most effective method is extermination, for when they are fully exterminated, none will be left to die out. Now let us examine the case in hand. Captain Wrungel, as he freely admits, had an excellent opportunity to exterminate the whale. And what did this cruel man do instead? He evaded his lofty duty and left the unfortunate animal to die out. Can we ignore this flagrant shirking of Man's duty to animals? No, gentlemen, we cannot. We must punish the criminal. I suggest his boat is taken away from him and given to my compatriots, who never flinch in carrying out the tasks of this committee..."
A representative of another power, this time from the West, I forget his name, something like Grabenfrukt, rose on a point of order:
"I fully agree with Herr Kusaki that Captain Wrungel deserves punishment. But I must point out that the honoured admiral has overlooked the most important aspect of the matter: as distinct from other cetaceans, the sperm-whale has an elongated scull, typical of the Aryan race. So in insulting the sperm-whale, Captain Wrungel has insulted the entire Aryan race. Do you think we Aryans will stand for it?"
I had heard enough to realise we had landed in the soup, so to speak. I sneaked out of the conference room and told my ship-mates of the way the wind was blowing. This dampened their spirits considerably. Still, there was nothing for it but to await the decision of the whale-lovers.
The conference lasted all day, and towards evening a resolution was passed. We had prepared ourselves for the worst and had mentally said goodbye to the Rage. But it was not as bad as we had feared. The resolution was in the nature of a tentative one: "To set up a commission for the study of the matter, placing meanwhile the yacht Rage with its crew on one of the nearby desert islands."
Naturally I lodged a protest, but to no avail. The Rage was hitched up by a crane and lowered on to the rocks. They put us ashore as well, raised their many flags, hooted a goodbye and were off. There was nothing for it, but to submit to brute force and settle down on the island as best we could. And our best was not nearly too good, let me tell you. The yacht was lying on the edge of a cliff, its mast sticking out over the sea, and gloomy breakers splashing at the foot of the cliff.
We decided to begin with making a round of our new abode. It was a sorry little island and no mistake-nothing but bare rocks. And it was cold on it too. But at least we could help that latter evil, for there was no shortage of firewood. The island was heaped with wreckage.
But one cannot live on fuel alone. We had no provisions left, and there was no observable flora or fauna on the island. We could not very well make a stew of stones.
They say appetite comes with eating. Perhaps it is so with some people, but I am a kind of freak. I work up an appetite when I have not eaten for a long time.
Determined to fight this abnormality of mine, I tightened my belt and tried not to think about food. Lom and Fooks also behaved stoically. We tried fishing, but caught nothing. Lom remembered that in the old times stranded seamen cooked their boot soles. He put his boots in a pan and cooked them for two days, but nothing came of it. And no wonder, seeing that in the old times they made boots of bullock hides, while ours were of synthetic rubber. They served their purpose well enough in wet weather, but their culinary qualities were exactly nil-neither a good taste, nor any nourishment.
We were getting very low in the mouths, wandering around our yacht, watching the horizon and casting hungry looks at each other. The ghost of starvation was looming very large indeed. At night we were tormented by nightmares.
Then one day an icefloe came floating along, with several dozen penguins lined up on it. They nodded to us in greeting and I nodded back, wondering all the time how to make a closer acquaintance of them. The shore was a steep drop and there was no going down it, while penguins were not likely to fly up to us, polite as we were to them. Their wings are just an adornment, you know. On the other hand, the birds were fat and appetising we could not afford to let them slip through our fingers.
There we stood, atop the cliff, looking longingly down at them. The icefloe nudged the shore right beneath our mast.
The penguins cawed, waved their wings and stamped their feet, looking up at us with as much longing, it seemed, as we at them.
An idea began to form in my head. I made the necessary calculations and decided to build a penguin lift, if you know what I mean.
We took an empty barrel, nailed a spare steering wheel to it, made a hole in the bottom and stuck it onto our mast. Over it we laid a storm ladder tied to make a continuous belt. I dry-ran the device, and it seemed to be working well. The only thing lacking was a bait. What kind of attraction could I use?
I tried a boot, but the penguins did not pay the least attention to it. We lowered a mirror, and the result was the same. We next tried a scarf and a meat-mincer, but nothing seemed to work. Then I had a real brainwave. In my cabin I had a picture on the wall, a still life showing a boiled carp under cream sauce. It was a present from an artist friend of mine.
The fish was very life-like indeed.
Well, I lowered the picture and the penguins looked at it with a lively interest, even came up closer to see it better. The nearest bird stepped on the ladder and strained to reach the carp. I gave the barrel a spin, and one bird was caught.
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Well, after we had finished the penguin procurement operation, things looked brighter. There were the penguins wandering about and raising a merry gaggle, and there was Lom, apron-clad, cooking our first meal in many days. He fried the first penguin on a spit, and we gobbled it up there and then, without sitting down. Our pangs appeased, we set about carting firewood for the kitchen, and Lom built a huge fire. It was some fire, let me tell you. The smoke rose in a column, like from a volcano, the rocks became so hot they nearly glowed, and the little ice-cap on the top of the island melted and formed a boiling lake.
I thought we might just as well have a bath and wash our clothes too. We washed our things and hung them out to dry, and themselves enjoyed a fine steam-bath. But there I made a mistake, carried away by a Russian's love of hot baths. I should have remembered that weather in the Antarctic is extremely changeful. Instead, I tossed on some more firewood.
Well, the mistake became only too obvious in half an hour's time. With the rocks so hot you could not step on them and the hot air rising up with a rumble like in a huge chimney, we disrupted the balance of air masses in the atmosphere. Cold currents rushed in, clouds gathered overhead, and it began to pour. And then there was a deafening crash.
