the dials.
There was the crackle of static, the sputter of noise…
And then a voice.
"London, yes. Who is this, please?"
"New York calling. Callison, Ted Callison. I'm with Raymond Barnes and his party. Is this Noel Hunt?"
"Can't hear you, New York!"
" Is … this … Noel … Hunt …?"
"Go on, New York," came the reply. "We are getting you now, New York."
Ted pinwheeled his arm to signal the others. Jim ran to his father, who was studying the ice near the edge of the water, and called, "Ted's got London on the radio, Dad!"
They gathered around-all but Chet, who went on dangling his line stolidly as though the entire success of their journey depended on his luck as a fisherman.
Jim heard the tinny words: "You've left New York, you say?"
"That's right," Ted said eagerly. "Eight of us-no, seven, now. We're on our way across the ice. We're coming to visit London!"
"Is this an official party?"
Callison looked to Dr. Barnes for advice. The tall man shook his head slightly.
"No," Ted said. "Not official. Just… just seven people coming to London. We've already gone about a hundred fifty miles. We should reach you within a month."
"How are you traveling?"
"By sled," Ted said. "We're coming across the ice."
"But how will you cross the water?"
"What water?"
"The Atlantic!"
"So far it's frozen," Ted replied. "Mostly, anyway. We hope to make it all the way across. We'll be seeing you soon, London!"
"Why… why are you coming?" the faint voice out of the speaker said, perplexed.
"Why?" Ted asked. "Why not? It's time for a visit, isn't it? Three hundred years underground is long enough. We're on our way, London!"
There was silence from the other end, strange after Ted's jubilant whoop. Jim frowned. Why no word of encouragement, why no expression of excitement? The Londoner seemed merely baffled that anybody should want to undertake so arduous and improbable a journey.
"Are you still there, London?" Ted asked after a moment.
"Yes. Yes. But… all right, New York. Good-by, now. Good-by, New York!"
"Hello?" Ted said. "Hello, hello, hello!"
He looked up, shaking his head, and turned off the set.
"They don't sound very friendly, do they?" Jim said.
"Maybe he was just startled," Carl suggested. "After all, to find out that an expedition is actually coming across the Atlantic-"
Dr. Barnes shook his head. "Even so, he might have seemed a little more enthusiastic. I wonder what sort of welcome we re in for, when we reach the other side. If we make it."
* * *
They were ready to leave. All but Chet. He had not eaten lunch with them, he had not helped to charge the sleds; he still sat by the edge of the water, long legs folded weirdly underneath him, patiently dangling his line into the water.
"Should we leave him behind?" Ted Callison asked. "He doesn't need us, anyway. He can live off the fish he catches."
"Then he'll go hungry," Roy said. "He hasn't caught one yet, has he?"
Chet ignored the banter. He peered into the dark water as though trying to hocus fish onto his line with sheer will power. Suddenly he stiffened and tugged at the line.
"I've got a bite!" he yelled. "Something took the bait!"
"Reel it in, man!" Ted Callison urged him. "Maybe you've caught a whale!"
The shining line came up out of the water. Chet stared in dismay. A wriggling, flopping creature no more than five inches long dangled from the end of his line.
"Some whale!" Ted Callison roared.
"A monster!" Carl whooped.
Chet's embarrassment seemed to overwhelm his scientific curiosity. Red-faced, he muttered a curse and made as if to throw the tiny fish back into the water without even pausing to examine it.
"Wait," Jim said. "Let me see!"
He took the line and held it up. The fish was beautiful. Its sleek, scaly body glimmered like quicksilver in the sunlight. Beady eyes looked at him in mute appeal. The little creature's body seemed perfectly designed, shaped by a master hand, magnificently streamlined for a life in the water.
There was the crackle of static, the sputter of noise…
And then a voice.
"London, yes. Who is this, please?"
"New York calling. Callison, Ted Callison. I'm with Raymond Barnes and his party. Is this Noel Hunt?"
"Can't hear you, New York!"
" Is … this … Noel … Hunt …?"
"Go on, New York," came the reply. "We are getting you now, New York."
Ted pinwheeled his arm to signal the others. Jim ran to his father, who was studying the ice near the edge of the water, and called, "Ted's got London on the radio, Dad!"
They gathered around-all but Chet, who went on dangling his line stolidly as though the entire success of their journey depended on his luck as a fisherman.
Jim heard the tinny words: "You've left New York, you say?"
"That's right," Ted said eagerly. "Eight of us-no, seven, now. We're on our way across the ice. We're coming to visit London!"
"Is this an official party?"
Callison looked to Dr. Barnes for advice. The tall man shook his head slightly.
"No," Ted said. "Not official. Just… just seven people coming to London. We've already gone about a hundred fifty miles. We should reach you within a month."
"How are you traveling?"
"By sled," Ted said. "We're coming across the ice."
"But how will you cross the water?"
"What water?"
"The Atlantic!"
"So far it's frozen," Ted replied. "Mostly, anyway. We hope to make it all the way across. We'll be seeing you soon, London!"
"Why… why are you coming?" the faint voice out of the speaker said, perplexed.
"Why?" Ted asked. "Why not? It's time for a visit, isn't it? Three hundred years underground is long enough. We're on our way, London!"
There was silence from the other end, strange after Ted's jubilant whoop. Jim frowned. Why no word of encouragement, why no expression of excitement? The Londoner seemed merely baffled that anybody should want to undertake so arduous and improbable a journey.
"Are you still there, London?" Ted asked after a moment.
"Yes. Yes. But… all right, New York. Good-by, now. Good-by, New York!"
"Hello?" Ted said. "Hello, hello, hello!"
He looked up, shaking his head, and turned off the set.
"They don't sound very friendly, do they?" Jim said.
"Maybe he was just startled," Carl suggested. "After all, to find out that an expedition is actually coming across the Atlantic-"
Dr. Barnes shook his head. "Even so, he might have seemed a little more enthusiastic. I wonder what sort of welcome we re in for, when we reach the other side. If we make it."
* * *
They were ready to leave. All but Chet. He had not eaten lunch with them, he had not helped to charge the sleds; he still sat by the edge of the water, long legs folded weirdly underneath him, patiently dangling his line into the water.
"Should we leave him behind?" Ted Callison asked. "He doesn't need us, anyway. He can live off the fish he catches."
"Then he'll go hungry," Roy said. "He hasn't caught one yet, has he?"
Chet ignored the banter. He peered into the dark water as though trying to hocus fish onto his line with sheer will power. Suddenly he stiffened and tugged at the line.
"I've got a bite!" he yelled. "Something took the bait!"
"Reel it in, man!" Ted Callison urged him. "Maybe you've caught a whale!"
The shining line came up out of the water. Chet stared in dismay. A wriggling, flopping creature no more than five inches long dangled from the end of his line.
"Some whale!" Ted Callison roared.
"A monster!" Carl whooped.
Chet's embarrassment seemed to overwhelm his scientific curiosity. Red-faced, he muttered a curse and made as if to throw the tiny fish back into the water without even pausing to examine it.
"Wait," Jim said. "Let me see!"
He took the line and held it up. The fish was beautiful. Its sleek, scaly body glimmered like quicksilver in the sunlight. Beady eyes looked at him in mute appeal. The little creature's body seemed perfectly designed, shaped by a master hand, magnificently streamlined for a life in the water.
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