" Is a territorial limit of two hundred miles usual for this sort of thing?" I asked.
" There was damn near a war when Iceland imposed a mere twelve-mile territorial limit ban on ordinary fishing," he answered.
Upton made the whole thing sound plausible. He was going after the Blue Whale because I had pointed the way to the goal that whalermen had dreamed of for centuries.
And I wanted to go after that other prong of The Albatross'
Foot.
I said slowly: " If The Albatross' Foot is within twelve miles of Bouvet, I want nothing to do with your operation. If it is outside the twelve-mile limit, which I consider fair for any territorial-waters claim, then we'll pool ideas. Fair enough?"
He shook my hand. "That's the spirit of the Sprightly!" he exclaimed.
Helen turned to Sailhardy. "Are you coming, sailor?" He did not look at her. " I shall go with Captain
Wetherby."
The eyes became luminous for a moment. "'That is a very neat distinction."
There was a knock at the door, and she unlocked it to Pirow.
" Walter signals he's just coming round the point into the anchorage," he said. " He'll be alongside any minute in the Aurora."
4. The Man with the Immaculate Hand
"It is a wild night outside this anchorage," said the big man in the streaming oilskins. Upton did not seem to mind when he shook the water from his sou'wester on to the cabin's fine carpet. " The waves come forty feet high to-night."
" That's nothing new to you, Walter," Upton replied jocularly. " Or to Captain Wetherby here." He introduced us. " Gunner-Captain Walter is the finest harpooner in the Southern Ocean."
I disliked Walter at sight. He looked the sort of sailor 48 for a night like this: his great hand as he gripped mine was scaled over from the kick of the harpoon-gun, and matched his massive frame. He stank of whale and Schnapps, with an overlay of weatherproofing. He was half-shavenI was never to see him otherwise.
" So you find your man, eh, Sir Frederick?" he said. There was a suggestiveness about my mind. Upton had told me about the Blue Whale; Walter was obviously the type to carry out such a project; yet what had been imponderables to them before they found me seemed now to fit neatly – too neatly-into the pattern.
" Where are the others?" asked Upton.
" I kept them close to the Aurora all the way from South Georgia," Walter replied. " In fact, within W / T range. You know what these catcher skippers are like-they spot a whale and go chasing after it, and before you know where you are, you are chasing him. No, they'll all be in within half an hour."
" Good," said Upton. " I want to brief them as soon as they come in."
" Where is Pirow?" asked Walter.
Was I imagining it, or was there also some innuendo in the way the tough skipper said it? The question and the answer were harmless enough in themselves.
" Where do you think?" said Upton. " As always, in the radio room."
" That Pirow," said Walter thoughtfully. " He should have married a radio set." He thrust his big jaw towards Sailhardy. " Who is this, heh?"
" Sailhardy," I said. " A Tristan islander."
" Ah, hell," said the big Norwegian. " Tristan islander!
Shipwrecks and black women."
Sailhardy came across the cabin towards Walter. The only outward sign of his anger was a curious flicking of his left small finger into the palm of his hand. I knew Sailhardy's strength.
Upton intervened. " Walter doesn't mean it for you." " Sonofabitch," said Sailhardy.
"Come, boys," went on Upton. " You both need a drink."
"I told you, not for me," glowered Sailhardy.
" A Cape Horner for me," grinned Walter. " A full Cape Homer!"
Upton splashed half a glass of Schnapps and tipped a pint of stout into it.
Two more men in oilskins pushed open the cabin door. " Reidar Bull, catcher Crozet," said one.
" Klarius Hanssen, catcher Kerguelen," said the other. Their economy of words as they identified themselves and their snips was typicaclass="underline" to them, the ship and the skipper were synonymous. They eyed the luxurious cabin enviously. I knew what their own quarters were like: a metal box containing a hard bunk, continuously soaked through leaking bulkheads. It was better to be on the bridge.
They were naming their drinks as Lars Brunvoll arrived. " Brunvoll, catcher Chimay," he introduced himself.
" I laughed when Walter told me the name of your ship," said Upton. " Chimay-iceberg! Don't you see enough ice, Brunvoll?" The skipper was at his ease immediately. " We're still missing one, though."
". Mikklesen," said Walter. " Where is he, Brunvoll?" " He was tying up as I came over," he replied.
The door open and Mikklesen came in. He did not look, like the others, as if he had been lashed together with steel wire. He was of medium height with a thin, pinched nose and the clearest of blue eyes.
" I am Mikklesen of the Falkland," he said. " You are Sir Frederick Upton?"
He was the odd man out, just as the islands after which his catcher was named belong more to South America than to Antarctica.
At a sign from her father, Helen left. The skippers sat uneasily on the fine furnishings. Their concession to the social gathering was to open their oilskins without taking them off. They were as tough as a Narwhal's tusk. Upton did his trick with the flaming brandy and raised the metal tankard with its blue flame to them. " Skoll! To the finest whalermen in the Southern Ocean!"
Only Walter responded. The others stared selfconsciously into their drinks.
During the next few minutes I admired Upton's handling of the skippers. They were out of their element. Upton wanted them for something. They knew it, and he knew that they knew. To have put a foot wrong would have sent them all on their way.
Upton blew out the flame and gulped down the hot spirit.
They looked surprised. He grinned at them as he threw in another dollop-of brandy. " Surely I don't have to show whalermen how to drink spirits?" he asked.
Obediently, they up-ended their glasses.
He raised his tankard. " To the Blaahval."
Here it comes, I thought, with that toast to the Blue
Whale.
"Blaahval!" echoed the Norwegians.
" Captains," Upton began. " Peter Walter has asked you to come and join me here at Tristan to talk business." They eyed him silently. I could see they were not impressed – you don't get men to voyage two thousand miles in partial radio silence just to talk business, not ordinary business. Mikklesen broke in. " Sir Frederick, before we go further, who is paying for our fuel to get here?"
" I am," Upton replied. " You will draw all food, fuel and supplies-liquor if you like-from this ship. Anything you want." They murmured approval.
Then Upton played it rough, the knockdown for rough men. He gestured at me. " The professor here has found it. He knows where the Blue Whale breeds."
Each turned and eyed me with a long, appraising look, as if searching an uncertain horizon. That, mixed with a kind of iconoclastic wonder. I started to speak, but Upton went on: " You captains will hunt the Blue Whale with me in its very breeding-ground."
Hanssen said thickly, " Where is it, Sir Frederick?" Upton laughed and punched him on the shoulder. " You bastard, Hanssen!" He turned to the others. " He says to me, where is it? Just like that! The greatest mystery of all time for whalermen, and he says, where is it."
He'd got his audience. The Norwegians roared with laughter.
Sailhardy whispered to me: " Bruce! Let's get out of this set-up. It's all wrong."
Upton didn't miss his cue with us, either. " Only the professor knows," he told them. " You see, he has been a captain in the Royal Navy. You know what they are. They never talk."