[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
combat in the war which had ended a couple of years earlier. The burly man walked with a pronounced
limp, though Göring had not heard him complain about the problem; and the German speculated that
Davies had taken a lump of shrapnel home with him from the trenches. The other English younger,
brasher were fools. It had been a long night for Göring with these English and their schoolboy humour,
their tea and their 'hooch'; but Göring had found a grudging respect for Davies.
Davies smiled through his mask of beard. 'Well, Herr Oberleutnant. Are you fit and rested for your great
challenge?'
'Indeed,' Göring said. 'And in not many hours I will return in my trusty scout, and you shall be the first to
hear of my adventures.'
'But take a care, Leutnant.'
Göring, wincing, turned; they had been joined by the mechanic, Collishaw. Foul breath misted before the
man's round, foolish face as he stomped feet clad in sealskin fur.
'Oberleutnant,' Göring corrected him mildly.
Collishaw, no older than Göring, grinned impudently. 'The Pole is an unforgiving place. It did for our chap
Scott, don't forget, despite all his experience and preparations.'
'I know of your "chap Scott",' Göring said, letting irritation leak into his voice. In fact, Göring was
retracing Scott's fateful route, from the shadow of the astonishing thirty-metre-high cliffs of ice that
marked the edge of the Great Ice Barrier, and then across a frozen sea to the mighty limbs of the
Beardsmore Glacier.
Collishaw nodded. 'You visited the cairn, of course.'
Göring hesitated. He had had little choice; for the Englishmen of the Royal Geographic Society who had
sponsored this expedition had, naturally, established the first of Göring's refuelling stops not a hundred
metres from the place from which Scott and his companions, at last, had not had the strength to rise.
Göring had walked out, alone, to visit the pile of grubby snow, the sad cross of skis which marked that
pathetic end, and he had paid his own, silent respects to the brave Captain R.F. Scott.
But now he yawned, hoping to irritate the smug English. 'There was not time, Herr Collishaw. Perhaps
another occasion...'
'It's not a damn Bavarian beauty spot, man.' As Göring had hoped Collishaw's grin was replaced with a
glaring frown. 'Look around you. See the unevenness of the ground? That's what we call sastrugi frozen
waves of ice. Damn near impossible to drag a sledge across, with dogs or without 'em. It's what did for
Scott and his chums.'
Davies said mildly, 'But the Oberleutnant will be far above our sastrugi, Phillip.'
'True.' Now Collishaw grinned again; his beard and hair were so blonde, his eyes bluer than Göring's
own, that he could almost have been a Prussian, Göring thought. But not in the foolishness of his manner,
of course. 'Tell me, Oberleutnant. Did you fly with Richthofen himself?' Collishaw gestured towards the
Fokker. 'I see you've borrowed his taste in paintwork.'
Göring drew himself to his full height and turned to Davies. 'Am I required to converse with this ignorant
young man in compensation for my fuel?'
Davies said, 'Phillip, the Oberleutnant took command of Rittmeister von Richthofen's Jagdgeschwader
the famous "Flying Circus" after the death of Der Rote Kampfflieger himself.'
Davies' German pronunciation was woman-soft, thought Göring, but passable. Davies smiled at Göring.
'In fact, Herr Oberleutnant, your triplane is the same model in which von Richthofen met his death.'
The Dr I, yes,' Göring said, somewhat mollified.
'So you see, Phillip,' Davies went on, 'if anyone is capable of completing this astonishing flight, it is surely
the Oberleutnant.'
Collishaw nodded, but insolence lingered in his voice. 'So you used to fly with the Red Baron. Now
you're off to fly with the angels, eh, Göring?'
The man's tone was like sandpaper over raw flesh to Göring. After the sorry end of the war the
ex-Officers had been regarded by some Germans as responsible for that conflict's disastrous conclusion.
Göring himself had been forced to face down a 'Soviet' of drunken Communists in Darmstadt he,
Hermann Göring, holder of the Order Pour le Merite, the 'Blue Max' itself! And it had not been the
violence but the disrespect of those dark days which Göring had been was still unable to accept.
Now he heard echoes of that insolence in the tones of this Collishaw: overlaid, of course, with the smug
contempt of the victorious for the vanquished. Göring said, 'Perhaps, my friend, you are of that
superstitious rabble who believes that man is not fit to challenge the Heavens. You are a follower of that
ancient Hebrew, Maimonides, who believed that humans are one with the Earth and the things which
crawl over it; perhaps you believe that some mysterious Nemesis will strike me down as I sail through the
skies around the Axis.' As indeed had predicted Göring's own godfather, the dreary Epenstein, the
Oberleutnant reflected.
Collishaw looked baffled. 'Maimon... who?'
Davies laughed. 'Herr Oberleutnant, cosmology has been the fashionable subject for a decade, ever since
Scott's astonishing discovery. And even the shallowest circles have buzzed with the names of long-dead
philosophers, monks and clerics. But I doubt very much if a debate on Maimonides with our young friend
here is going to bear you much fruit.' He looked thoughtful. 'Of course, the resolution of the puzzle to
which you allude is of great interest, even beyond the human fascination of the feat you are going to
attempt. Is the Universe, the layered sky above the Earth, an artifact which we can touch,
handle perhaps, one day, manipulate as Eudoxus and Aristotle believed? Or are there some things
forever beyond our reach? The Rabbi Ben Sira said, "What the Lord keeps secret is no concern of
yours..."' He studied Göring. 'I suspect you yourself are an Aristotelean, Herr Oberleutnant. Or you
would surely not be attempting this feat.'
'Indeed.' Göring smiled. 'Let me counter your antique Jew with the words of Ptolemy, who said: "I know
that I am mortal, a creature of a day; but when I search with my mind into the multitudinous revolving
spirals of the stars, my feet no longer touch the Earth, but beside Zeus himself I take my fill of
ambrosia..." Well, Herr Davies, perhaps before this day is over we shall know one way or the other.'
Davies nodded, his brown eyes thoughtful; but Göring noticed that the burly Englishman had drawn away
from him a little, apparently flinching at Göring's dismissal of Ben Sira. Davies said with mild reproof, 'I'm
not certain that a man's race is a valid test of his philosophy, Herr Oberleutnant. Still, I find I envy you
your adventure.'
'Well, I don't,' Collishaw said brashly. 'Flying to the Pole in that crate? Good luck to you, man; but, good
God, what a crazy stunt!'
Göring glared. 'I do not perform "stunts".'
Collishaw grinned. 'And what if you get the same sort of nasty shock as did poor old Scott? All the way
to the Pole, only to find a Norwegian flag waiting for him!'
'Your prattling irritates me, Herr Collishaw,' Göring said evenly.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]