without whose consent we did nothing. Lieutenant (jg) Selmon, I thought. He possessed that Jewishness which is quietly confident of its superiority of intellect, by the same token far too smart to let his knowledge of the fact show through, realizing that to do so throws away half its power. No officer aboard had so ascended in importance.
“It could,” he said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think it will, Captain. I don’t think the winds will bring it. Not with the westerly flow this time of year. We’ve got four months before the winds shift, the northerly currents begin . . .” He hesitated. “If the schedule holds, if something has not happened to throw off that, even . . . By then I calculate most of it will have settled wherever it’s made up its mind to settle.”
The winds, I thought. They now govern everything. I thought of a phrase from Milton: the felon winds.
“Unless it’s added to,” Selmon added judiciously. “That seems so improbable that . . . Wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“I can’t imagine who would do it. But if either of those two unlikelihoods happened—or both . . .”
The Navy taught you to figure out what was least likely to happen, and the worst thing that could, then count on it. He seemed almost to be speaking to himself.
“If there was still some left four months down the line; or if it had been added to; and came the shift of the winds . . .”
He stopped, needing to say no more. I looked at him and said quietly, “Girard and I were doing the great inventory today. I was a tailor at one point. The idea was to alter our Barents clothing, somehow adapt it, to present latitude.”
Selmon permitted himself a soft smile; memory taking him, I imagine, nearly a hundred degrees of parallel north from where the ship now lay at anchor to seas as bleak and fierce as earth held, gales of Beaufort 7 chronic, weatherdeck watches so thickly bundled only eyes showed, waters so appalling a hand overboard—it happened twice with us—would be claimed by the cold even before the sea could take him; from there back to this serene equatorial domain, these pale azures, ruled by the sun, with its own ferocity. The matter hung in the air as fully as if it had been stated. Were we to see the cold again, this time at the other end of latitude? The radiation officer had returned to that thoughtful, fully concentrated expression that was his manner at any proposed course.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I would. Not just yet. I’d leave Barents clothing as is. Wait and see, I’d say, sir.”
“Wait and see,” I repeated tonelessly.
He said: “If those things happened—or even one of them . . . There would be nothing to do but run before it. Get as far south in latitude as possible. And it might be necessary to go all the way. As conclusive as one can be in these matters, I can’t believe it would ever reach there. Certainly it would be the last to go.”
We had gone over it all, times without number; stopped always by, How did you exist there? I let the silence hold a moment; then turned my head fractionally; spoke to the hardest, coldest fact of all, bringing everything inside oneself to a kind of chill of finality: two months of running time left on the nuclear reactor cores containing the highly enriched uranium fuel which propelled the ship.
“Mr. Melville,” I said. “We can go to Antarctica and back. Or we can go home, all the way, and back. Not both. Or: we can navigate Antarctica there and back; go home; but could not then return. Is all of that correct?”
“Affirmative, sir,” the engineering officer said. “I’ve worked it out practically to the mile, Captain. All figures being calculated on slow-steaming basis. Not above twelve knots.”
I could never have one of these conversations with Melville concerning our low fuel supply, and the unforgiving urgency of hoarding it, without my mind’s flashing helplessly back to that final session
“It could,” he said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think it will, Captain. I don’t think the winds will bring it. Not with the westerly flow this time of year. We’ve got four months before the winds shift, the northerly currents begin . . .” He hesitated. “If the schedule holds, if something has not happened to throw off that, even . . . By then I calculate most of it will have settled wherever it’s made up its mind to settle.”
The winds, I thought. They now govern everything. I thought of a phrase from Milton: the felon winds.
“Unless it’s added to,” Selmon added judiciously. “That seems so improbable that . . . Wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“I can’t imagine who would do it. But if either of those two unlikelihoods happened—or both . . .”
The Navy taught you to figure out what was least likely to happen, and the worst thing that could, then count on it. He seemed almost to be speaking to himself.
“If there was still some left four months down the line; or if it had been added to; and came the shift of the winds . . .”
He stopped, needing to say no more. I looked at him and said quietly, “Girard and I were doing the great inventory today. I was a tailor at one point. The idea was to alter our Barents clothing, somehow adapt it, to present latitude.”
Selmon permitted himself a soft smile; memory taking him, I imagine, nearly a hundred degrees of parallel north from where the ship now lay at anchor to seas as bleak and fierce as earth held, gales of Beaufort 7 chronic, weatherdeck watches so thickly bundled only eyes showed, waters so appalling a hand overboard—it happened twice with us—would be claimed by the cold even before the sea could take him; from there back to this serene equatorial domain, these pale azures, ruled by the sun, with its own ferocity. The matter hung in the air as fully as if it had been stated. Were we to see the cold again, this time at the other end of latitude? The radiation officer had returned to that thoughtful, fully concentrated expression that was his manner at any proposed course.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I would. Not just yet. I’d leave Barents clothing as is. Wait and see, I’d say, sir.”
“Wait and see,” I repeated tonelessly.
He said: “If those things happened—or even one of them . . . There would be nothing to do but run before it. Get as far south in latitude as possible. And it might be necessary to go all the way. As conclusive as one can be in these matters, I can’t believe it would ever reach there. Certainly it would be the last to go.”
We had gone over it all, times without number; stopped always by, How did you exist there? I let the silence hold a moment; then turned my head fractionally; spoke to the hardest, coldest fact of all, bringing everything inside oneself to a kind of chill of finality: two months of running time left on the nuclear reactor cores containing the highly enriched uranium fuel which propelled the ship.
“Mr. Melville,” I said. “We can go to Antarctica and back. Or we can go home, all the way, and back. Not both. Or: we can navigate Antarctica there and back; go home; but could not then return. Is all of that correct?”
“Affirmative, sir,” the engineering officer said. “I’ve worked it out practically to the mile, Captain. All figures being calculated on slow-steaming basis. Not above twelve knots.”
I could never have one of these conversations with Melville concerning our low fuel supply, and the unforgiving urgency of hoarding it, without my mind’s flashing helplessly back to that final session
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