Antarctica by Peter Lerangis Page B

you!” Lombardo bellowed.
    “If you stopped acting like a gorilla, sailor,” Captain Barth said, “people wouldn’t bait you. Thank you for your prayers. Dismissed. All of you!”
    “Thank you, sir.” Lombardo stood, bowed, and backed out of the tent.
    The sailors were moved by Barth’s survival. As they filed out, Andrew could feel the change in the air. A spark of optimism.
    Dr. Montfort brought Barth a mug of freshwater, melted from snow.
    “How is Nesbit?” Barth asked.
    Andrew glanced at the doctor, who shook his head slowly.
    Barth’s eyes grew suddenly glassy. “Did he suffer?”
    “He never woke up,” Dr. Montfort said.
    “He was one of the best.” Barth looked away. “Hayes?”
    “He’s right behind me, Captain. Recovering. Exposure and frostbite. He’ll be all right, I think.”
    “And the stores — any meat?”
    “The men are hunting. The seals seem to have migrated. Unfortunately we’ll have to be patient.”
    More than patient, Andrew thought. Soon they’d have to suck nutrients out of wool.
    The men had been hunting daily. So far they’d brought back two penguins, a skua, and an albatross. Not nearly enough meat.
    Seals and penguins were sustenance out here.
    The camp would have to be moved closer to the wildlife. But who knew where the wildlife had gone?
    Andrew’s stomach was beyond painful. It felt dried out, shriveled and hard like a walnut. Today his tongue began to water at the sight of the dogs. The thought horrified him. But once, the thought of eating seals and penguins had horrified him, too.
    Hunger warped your mind. You saw the world in two categories, edible or inedible. And the definitions changed daily. How far down the evolutionary chain could you slide before you completely lost your humanity?
    The hunters would return soon. Maybe today they’d be lucky.
    Andrew stood to leave. “Good to have you back, Captain.”
    Barth nodded impatiently. “Yes.”
    As Andrew hobbled out, he leaned on a cane made of a plank from the Mystery’s deck. Its handle resembled a comely young woman—whittling courtesy of Brillman.
    Outside the tent, he placed weight on the injured leg. It still hurt like the devil — maybe a little better than the day before, but not much.
    “Oppenheim, get up or I’ll throw you out.”
    Lombardo again. Inside his tent now.
    “Who’s going to force me?” Oppenheim asked.
    “You want to see force? I’ll show you force!”
    Stimson rushed toward the tent. “Get ’im!”
    “Fight!” Bailey shouted.
    Andrew made his way to the tent. Inside, Lombardo and Oppenheim stood on opposite sides of a cot. Lombardo’s fists were clenched, his face red.
    “Lombardo, you’re going to give yourself another heart attack!” Andrew called out.
    “He was lying on my cot when I got in here,” Lombardo exclaimed. “He knows I’m sick.”
    “I’m sick, too!” Oppenheim said. “Everybody says so! Why should you get the deluxe suite, you bombastic lickspittle?”
    Lombardo stepped over the cot. “I’ll kill you. I will personally take you apart, do you hear me?”
    “Do it, Vincent. Please. Kill me. Then kill everybody else. Do us all a favor, will you? Because if you don’t, the cold will. Or the water. Or the starvation.”
    Lombardo had Oppenheim by the throat. “You want me to do it! YOU REALLY WANT ME TO DO IT, YOU WHINING, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING —”
    “Stop it!” Andrew shouted. He grabbed Lombardo by the arm and tried to yank him away.
    The cane fell. Andrew tumbled to the ground and howled with pain. It felt as if the wound had been ripped open.
    Stimson and Bailey stooped to pick him up. Andrew struggled to his feet.
    The men had pulled Lombardo off Oppenheim now, but he was still seething.
    “Oppenheim, come with me,” Andrew said, taking his cane.
    “Me?” Oppenheim asked. “Where are we going?”
    “For … a walk. I need someone to … spot me.” Andrew took his arm and ushered him out the tent flap.
    “You’re lucky, Oppenheim,