Prologue
In September of 1930, researchers from Arkhams Miskatonic University, led by Professors Dyer and Lake, set sail for the Antarctic continent on a bold venture of exploration and discovery.
Two months later they landed in Antarctica near Ross Island; twenty men, fifty-five dogs, and five large Dornier aeroplanes were set upon the ice. Their mission was to survey a geologic history of the Earths last frontier, to chart from the air where no human foot had stepped, and to determine at last, once and for all, whether Antarctica was indeed one land mass or several.
_______________________________________________________________________________
In much of this they were successful. From November of 1930 until mid-January of 1931, the expedition achieved goal after goal, milestone after milestone. Aerial explorations flew over and mapped thousands of square miles of previously unexplored territory. Sled teams took core samples from scattered spots over nearly a quarter of the continent.
However, history does not remember the Miskatonic Expedition for its successes, but for its final tragic failure
The end of the expedition came just as the team seemed on the brink of their most spectacular triumph. On January 23rd, a large party led by Professor Lake, broke through into an unbelievable treasure-trove of ancient bones and fossils in a series of caverns at the foot of a hitherto-unknown mountain range. For 2 days, they explored the caves, bringing up specimen after specimen, some utterly unlike any living things that have ever been studied by science.
They were never heard from again.
On the afternoon of January 24th, a tremendous Antarctic gale swept through the campsite, killing every man in Lakes party and scattering his samples, notes, and equipment beyond recovery. A rescue mission the following day found only silence, useless scraps of machinery, and a few pathetic remains of the tragedy. None of the men at Lakes camp ever returned home. The rest of the expedition retreated north a few days later.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Now, in March 1933, a new expedition is forming, intent upon a return to that forbidding Antarctic plateau and Lakes campsite.
British world explorer James Starkweather and American geologist William Moore have joined forces to attack the Antarctic. The two men have experience with harsh environments, both having travelled in the Himalayas, and Starkweather on the Arctic ice cap as well. Their stated goal is to return to the high, cold interior of the Antarctic continent and to finish the work that Lake and the other began three years ago. The two are gathering a team of scientists and technical experts whom they believe will allow them to succeed despite the dangers.
IC: Prologue
Moderator: Raiko
New York Times - May 26th 1933 wrote: Antarctica or Bust!
May 26th, 1933
Renowned Adventurer Sets His Sights on the Bottom of the World
New York (AP) - World famous explorer James Starkweather announced today that he would lead a party of scientists and explorers into uncharted parts of the Antarctic continent this fall.
Starkweather, accompanied by geologist William Moore of Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, intends to continue along the trail first blazed by the ill-fated Miskatonic University Expedition of 1930-31.
The Starkweather-Moore Expedition will set sail in September from New York City. Like their predecessors, they intend to use long-range aircraft to explore further into the South Polar wilderness than has ever been done before.
This is not about the South Pole, Starkweather explained this morning, in a prepared speech in his hotel in New York. Many people have been to the Pole. Were going to go places where no one has ever been, see and do things that no one alive has seen.
The expedition intends to spend only three months in Antarctica. Extensive use of aeroplanes for surveying and transport, according to Starkweather, will allow the party to chart and cover territory in hours that would have taken weeks to cross on the ground.
One goal of the expedition is to find the campsite and last resting place of the twelve men, led by Professor Charles Lake, who first discovered the Miskatonic Range, and who were killed there by an unexpected storm. The mapping and climbing of the mountains in that range and an aerial survey of the lands on the far side are also important goals.
The peaks are tremendous, Starkweather explained. The tallest mountains in the world! Its my job to conquer those heights, and bring home their secrets for all mankind.
We have the finest equipment money can buy. We cannot help but succeed.
Starkweather, 43, is a veteran of the Great War. He has led expeditions into the wilderness on four continents, and was present on the trans-polar flight of the airship Italia, whose crash near the end of its voyage on the North Polar ice cap received worldwide attention.
Moore, 39, a full Professor of Geology, is also the holder of the Smythe Chair of Paleontology at Miskatonic University. He has extensive field experience in harsh climates and has taken part in expeditions to both the Arctic and the Himalayan Plateau.
Arkham Advertiser - May 30th 1933 wrote: Intrepid Explorers Ready Expedition
May 30th, 1933
(cont. from p.1)
Were going back, Starkweather said. The jobs not done. Were going back, and were going to finish what was started and bring the whole lot out to the world. It will be a grand adventure and a glorious page in scientific history!
Professor Moore, sitting quietly to one side, was less passionate but just as determined.
A lot has changed in the past three years, he insisted. We have technology now that did not exist three years ago. The aeroplanes are better, brand new Boeing craft, sturdier and safer than before. Professor Pabodies drills have been improved. And we have Lakes own broadcasts to draw upon. We can plan ahead, with better materials and a knowledge of the region that none of them had when they prepared for their voyage. Yes, I am optimistic. Quite optimistic. We will succeed in our goals.
When asked what those goals were, the two men looked briefly at one another before Starkweather answered, leaning forward intently.
Leapfrog, gentlemen! he smiled. We shall leapfrog across the continent. A base on the Ross Ice Shelf; another at the South Pole. One at Lakes old campsite, if we can find it; and, gentlemen, we plan to cross over those fantastic mountains described by Dyer and Lake, and plant our instruments and our flag right on top of the high plateau! Imagine it! Like a landing strip atop Everest!
Well have the finest equipment, and skilled men. Geologists - paleontologists - weve got Professor Albemarle from Oberlin, he wants to study weather. Glaciologists, perhaps another biologist or two; the teams not all made up yet, of course. Were not leaving for another five months!
It is important, added Moore, to try to find Professor Lakes camp and bring home whatever we can from the caverns he discovered. The prospect of a wholly new kind of life, a different taxonomy, is extremely exciting. It would be a shame if, having found it once, we were unable to do so again.
The two explorers plan to land thirty men on the southern continent, half again more than the Miskatonic Expedition. The expedition is privately funded and owes no allegiance to any school or institution.
-
Mister Juan
- Acolyte
- Posts: 112
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Location: Montréal, Québec
- Contact:
Somewhere west of Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada, July 20th, 1933
Isugtag stood both boots deep in the mud. Winds from the Pacific had blown hard all month long, pushing in clouds upon clouds of heavy rain on the Yukons territory. Everywhere, the usual dirt ground had turned into muddy terrain, making the whole landscape shift from day to day. It took an expert to navigate in the wild and Isugtag Amaruq, a native from the neighbouring Northwestern territories, knew the land like the back of his hand. Since he had returned from Europe, he had spent most of his times between the cities of Whitehorse and Yellowknife.
Slowly crouching down, using the butt of his Enfield to steady himself, the Inuit slowly dragged his hand on the ground before him. The wet ground was covered in pinecones and leaves from the forest that surrounded him. From behind his large back, he could hear whispers of the men whom he had been guiding for the past week.
After a few seconds of inspecting the ground, and the flora around the immediate area, he pulled out a used map from inside his jacket. His deep brown eyes started to scan the immediate terrain drawn upon the yellowish piece of paper.
Someone lit a match. The moist air was briefly field with the smell of sulphur.
So, Grey Wolf, anything on our man? said a distinctively British voice.
Folding the map back on itself, Isugtag permitted himself a discreet smile. He wasnt sure why, but almost every person he met asked him the meaning of his name. The rough translation, from Inuktitut to English, gave something like Grey Wolf. Since it was much easier to remember and pronounce, it was the name most non Inuit used.
The Inuit gave a brief look to the three men who accompanied him. Jack Cordell and Arthur Nevil were both RCMP officers usually stationed in British Columbia. David Faraday was the local constable from Whitehorse. Apparently, the RCMP wanted some dutchman named Caspar Gerben, but he had slipped through their fingers and had disappeared a few years ago. He had resurfaced amongst a party of gold prospectors, still riding the Klondike gold rush of 1900. Faraday had recognized him, but when he had approached him, Gerben fled in the wilderness. The years he had spend in northern British Columbia and Yukon had visibly turned him into quite an adept woodsman... and so, Faraday had brought in some reinforcement: the two RCMP officers and the local forest ranger. For now over a week, the three men, led by Isugtag, were tracking Gerben in hope of capturing him alive.
A man has passed here. He walks heavy. said Grey Wolf in his heavy accented, but comprehensible English.
Cordell was sitting on a dead tree truck, smoking his pipe. Nevil was huffing and puffing to catch his breath back. Faraday, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine. RCMP men were used to travel in the wilderness but usually on horseback. The forest was too dense, and the ground to unstable to bring in horse, and so, they had left them a few kilometres away, at their encampment. Nevil brushed the sweat away from his forehead and looked over at Cordell.
How the hell can you smoke that in such a weather Ive never been so hot and sticky in my whole life.
Faraday chuckled.
Picking up his rifle from the ground, Grey Wolf started to walk again.
So, what now ? said Cordell.
A river runs not far from here. We are tired and thirsty.
Tell me about it grumbled Nevil.
Faraday threw a quick smile to Grey Wolf, showing that he understood what he meant and that he was impressed by his skills.
That means that Gerben will be at the river. He knows Grey Wolf is on his track, and so, he probably spent all day running. Hes travelling heavy, and hes scared. He's probably twice as tired and thirsty than us.
Faraday gave a little pat on Wolfs shoulder.
Good work my friend.
Isugtag replied with a smile.
**********
Gerben was crouched next to the river, splashing his face with the cold water from the stream. Eyes closed, he lifted his head toward the sun, taking in a deep breath.
Suddenly, he felt a presence behind him. His eyes darted to his rifle, which lay a few feet away, propped up on a rock. He started rising, taking one slow step forward and that is all he did. Even in the heat, the barrel of the gun felt cold on his neck. Someone had been able to sneak within mere inches of him and he hadnt even noticed. It wasnt possible there was some sort of trickery at work. The Dutchman made a move to turn around but he felt the barrel being pressed harder.
Dont move. said a deep voice.
From across the river, on the other bank, he could clearly see two men coming down the bank. Their uniforms flagged them as RCMP officers. Slowly, the fugitive turned around. A tall and broad shouldered Native was holding a Lee-Enfield straight into his face. Behind him, a man he had met a few weeks ago was jogging at a rapid pace, coming out of the forest.
When he was finally next to him, Faraday smiled at both men.
Well well well, Mister Gerben. On the authority of his Majesty the King, you are hereby under arrest.
**********
Sitting on a wooden chair, his mud covered boots both resting on the railing in front of him, Grey Wolf watched as Cordell and Nevil, back on their horses, led the now captured and bound fugitive. The Inuit chuckled as he smoked his pipe, watching the trio disappeared around the corner of Whitehorses main street. Constable Faraday came out of the small police station.
Job well done Amaruq. Im sure these two guys arent going to forget Yukon any time soon.
Slightly turning in his chair, the Native eyed the envelope the Constable was holding. Faraday looked down at his own hand, seemingly snapping out of whatever train of thought he was in.
Oh, its for you he said, handing the letter over. It came in a few days ago, while we were gone. Looks like its from the Yanks.
Isugtag quickly red it, his pipe stuck between his teeth. Faraday peered from over his shoulder.
Well Ill be damn! Youre leaving us?
It seems so.
Well my friend he gave him a rough hit on the shoulder as long as youre back for the poacher season, its all good.
Isugtag smiled at the man as he was standing up. Even thought the reception was in almost a month, Grey Wolf had a very long way to travel. He had to travel to Vancouver to get in touch with the Rangers representative, warn them of his departure, then cross the entire Canadian plains to get to Ottawa. From there, he could get on a train that would take him to New York. Good thing was, he still had enough to time to hunt some moosses before he had to leave.
Isugtag stood both boots deep in the mud. Winds from the Pacific had blown hard all month long, pushing in clouds upon clouds of heavy rain on the Yukons territory. Everywhere, the usual dirt ground had turned into muddy terrain, making the whole landscape shift from day to day. It took an expert to navigate in the wild and Isugtag Amaruq, a native from the neighbouring Northwestern territories, knew the land like the back of his hand. Since he had returned from Europe, he had spent most of his times between the cities of Whitehorse and Yellowknife.
Slowly crouching down, using the butt of his Enfield to steady himself, the Inuit slowly dragged his hand on the ground before him. The wet ground was covered in pinecones and leaves from the forest that surrounded him. From behind his large back, he could hear whispers of the men whom he had been guiding for the past week.
After a few seconds of inspecting the ground, and the flora around the immediate area, he pulled out a used map from inside his jacket. His deep brown eyes started to scan the immediate terrain drawn upon the yellowish piece of paper.
Someone lit a match. The moist air was briefly field with the smell of sulphur.
So, Grey Wolf, anything on our man? said a distinctively British voice.
Folding the map back on itself, Isugtag permitted himself a discreet smile. He wasnt sure why, but almost every person he met asked him the meaning of his name. The rough translation, from Inuktitut to English, gave something like Grey Wolf. Since it was much easier to remember and pronounce, it was the name most non Inuit used.
The Inuit gave a brief look to the three men who accompanied him. Jack Cordell and Arthur Nevil were both RCMP officers usually stationed in British Columbia. David Faraday was the local constable from Whitehorse. Apparently, the RCMP wanted some dutchman named Caspar Gerben, but he had slipped through their fingers and had disappeared a few years ago. He had resurfaced amongst a party of gold prospectors, still riding the Klondike gold rush of 1900. Faraday had recognized him, but when he had approached him, Gerben fled in the wilderness. The years he had spend in northern British Columbia and Yukon had visibly turned him into quite an adept woodsman... and so, Faraday had brought in some reinforcement: the two RCMP officers and the local forest ranger. For now over a week, the three men, led by Isugtag, were tracking Gerben in hope of capturing him alive.
A man has passed here. He walks heavy. said Grey Wolf in his heavy accented, but comprehensible English.
Cordell was sitting on a dead tree truck, smoking his pipe. Nevil was huffing and puffing to catch his breath back. Faraday, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine. RCMP men were used to travel in the wilderness but usually on horseback. The forest was too dense, and the ground to unstable to bring in horse, and so, they had left them a few kilometres away, at their encampment. Nevil brushed the sweat away from his forehead and looked over at Cordell.
How the hell can you smoke that in such a weather Ive never been so hot and sticky in my whole life.
Faraday chuckled.
Picking up his rifle from the ground, Grey Wolf started to walk again.
So, what now ? said Cordell.
A river runs not far from here. We are tired and thirsty.
Tell me about it grumbled Nevil.
Faraday threw a quick smile to Grey Wolf, showing that he understood what he meant and that he was impressed by his skills.
That means that Gerben will be at the river. He knows Grey Wolf is on his track, and so, he probably spent all day running. Hes travelling heavy, and hes scared. He's probably twice as tired and thirsty than us.
Faraday gave a little pat on Wolfs shoulder.
Good work my friend.
Isugtag replied with a smile.
**********
Gerben was crouched next to the river, splashing his face with the cold water from the stream. Eyes closed, he lifted his head toward the sun, taking in a deep breath.
Suddenly, he felt a presence behind him. His eyes darted to his rifle, which lay a few feet away, propped up on a rock. He started rising, taking one slow step forward and that is all he did. Even in the heat, the barrel of the gun felt cold on his neck. Someone had been able to sneak within mere inches of him and he hadnt even noticed. It wasnt possible there was some sort of trickery at work. The Dutchman made a move to turn around but he felt the barrel being pressed harder.
Dont move. said a deep voice.
From across the river, on the other bank, he could clearly see two men coming down the bank. Their uniforms flagged them as RCMP officers. Slowly, the fugitive turned around. A tall and broad shouldered Native was holding a Lee-Enfield straight into his face. Behind him, a man he had met a few weeks ago was jogging at a rapid pace, coming out of the forest.
When he was finally next to him, Faraday smiled at both men.
Well well well, Mister Gerben. On the authority of his Majesty the King, you are hereby under arrest.
**********
Sitting on a wooden chair, his mud covered boots both resting on the railing in front of him, Grey Wolf watched as Cordell and Nevil, back on their horses, led the now captured and bound fugitive. The Inuit chuckled as he smoked his pipe, watching the trio disappeared around the corner of Whitehorses main street. Constable Faraday came out of the small police station.
Job well done Amaruq. Im sure these two guys arent going to forget Yukon any time soon.
Slightly turning in his chair, the Native eyed the envelope the Constable was holding. Faraday looked down at his own hand, seemingly snapping out of whatever train of thought he was in.
Oh, its for you he said, handing the letter over. It came in a few days ago, while we were gone. Looks like its from the Yanks.
Isugtag quickly red it, his pipe stuck between his teeth. Faraday peered from over his shoulder.
Well Ill be damn! Youre leaving us?
It seems so.
Well my friend he gave him a rough hit on the shoulder as long as youre back for the poacher season, its all good.
Isugtag smiled at the man as he was standing up. Even thought the reception was in almost a month, Grey Wolf had a very long way to travel. He had to travel to Vancouver to get in touch with the Rangers representative, warn them of his departure, then cross the entire Canadian plains to get to Ottawa. From there, he could get on a train that would take him to New York. Good thing was, he still had enough to time to hunt some moosses before he had to leave.
Last edited by Mister Juan on Thu Jun 29, 2006 8:02 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Last flight of the Bush Pilot
Air Ronge, Northern Saskatchewan.
A few people started to come out of their homes upon hearing the grumble of the aircraft. They watched as it came out of the clouds, flying over the little settlement and began to bank for it's landing on the large lake.
The fairchilds radial engine was grumbling slightly as Mcraven began the banking manoeuvre, and the handling of the high wing plane was a little sluggish. No wonder really thought Mcraven, it was fitted with pontoons for the lake landing, and the plane was stacked with the supplies this little isolated community depended on.
The Crosswinds were beginning to pick up, and he found himself struggling with the aircraft as it was buffeted during it's descent. This was always tricky...landing an aircraft better suited for dry land that has been converted into a seaplane...with high crosswinds to boot.
But the fairchild was a sturdy little workhorse and McRaven was a pretty good pilot, even if he did say so himself. It wasn't long before the pontoons were skimming the surface of the water. Now was the time for complete concentration. He always remembered the words from the pilot who co-piloted him during his first attempt to land a sea-plane, which had been a truly bowl loosening experience.
The Pilot, a crusty war vet called Captain Peck, had simply described the process as a controlled crash, "so you better keep yer eyes and ears peeled the whole time!"
McRavens attention was completely focused now as he fought the winds and the planes attempt to dip its nose in the lake. Arms sore from the strain, he was able to relax as the aircraft settled and began to coast near the bank. Some locals in a small rowing boat, came out to help secure the plane and more importantly secure the precious cargo.
He exchanged the usual pleasantries as the cargo was off loaded. Mail, and several crates of a wine/spirit concoction called caribou. This was offloaded with a high degree of care, as if it were eggs or something more precious.
"Out here this stuff probably is as precious as gold" muttered McRaven as he got one of the locals to sign off for the cargo.
"What was that, Bill?"
"Oh nothing, Jimmy" said Mcraven to the local handing back the clipboard "This will be the last flight now that that summer is finally here and the roads are safe"
Jimmy, nodded and smiled. "I guess, but there will be places further north, that needs deliverance if you follow me"
McRaven Laughed at this as he waved goodbye to the villagers, for what he realised would be the last time.
"Places further North" he pulled the letter out of his flight jacket.
"Dear Mr McRaven" The letter began,
"Without hesitation I am delighted to offer you a place on the Starkweather-Moore Expedition team...."
William began to throttle up the engine for the flight back to base. McRaven had other plans, and the destination lay South, way down South.
Flying had always been an adventure, and the greatest adventure was waiting for him.
A few people started to come out of their homes upon hearing the grumble of the aircraft. They watched as it came out of the clouds, flying over the little settlement and began to bank for it's landing on the large lake.
The fairchilds radial engine was grumbling slightly as Mcraven began the banking manoeuvre, and the handling of the high wing plane was a little sluggish. No wonder really thought Mcraven, it was fitted with pontoons for the lake landing, and the plane was stacked with the supplies this little isolated community depended on.
The Crosswinds were beginning to pick up, and he found himself struggling with the aircraft as it was buffeted during it's descent. This was always tricky...landing an aircraft better suited for dry land that has been converted into a seaplane...with high crosswinds to boot.
But the fairchild was a sturdy little workhorse and McRaven was a pretty good pilot, even if he did say so himself. It wasn't long before the pontoons were skimming the surface of the water. Now was the time for complete concentration. He always remembered the words from the pilot who co-piloted him during his first attempt to land a sea-plane, which had been a truly bowl loosening experience.
The Pilot, a crusty war vet called Captain Peck, had simply described the process as a controlled crash, "so you better keep yer eyes and ears peeled the whole time!"
McRavens attention was completely focused now as he fought the winds and the planes attempt to dip its nose in the lake. Arms sore from the strain, he was able to relax as the aircraft settled and began to coast near the bank. Some locals in a small rowing boat, came out to help secure the plane and more importantly secure the precious cargo.
He exchanged the usual pleasantries as the cargo was off loaded. Mail, and several crates of a wine/spirit concoction called caribou. This was offloaded with a high degree of care, as if it were eggs or something more precious.
"Out here this stuff probably is as precious as gold" muttered McRaven as he got one of the locals to sign off for the cargo.
"What was that, Bill?"
"Oh nothing, Jimmy" said Mcraven to the local handing back the clipboard "This will be the last flight now that that summer is finally here and the roads are safe"
Jimmy, nodded and smiled. "I guess, but there will be places further north, that needs deliverance if you follow me"
McRaven Laughed at this as he waved goodbye to the villagers, for what he realised would be the last time.
"Places further North" he pulled the letter out of his flight jacket.
"Dear Mr McRaven" The letter began,
"Without hesitation I am delighted to offer you a place on the Starkweather-Moore Expedition team...."
William began to throttle up the engine for the flight back to base. McRaven had other plans, and the destination lay South, way down South.
Flying had always been an adventure, and the greatest adventure was waiting for him.
-
Decrepit
- Disciple
- Posts: 1031
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Location: Iowa City, Iowa, USA
- Contact:
At the offices of the New York Daily News
"... I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted ..."
Reading using the fading daylight slipping through the blinds covering the window near his desk, Jack Wilson squinted at the words he'd read and reread a dozen times already. They were the words he'd both hoped for and dreaded. As Starkweather had said, this could be it, the story that got him noticed, pulled him back from the ledge of respectability that he'd so recently been dangling from, back onto firm ground and into the light of the world.
But it also raised the old fears. Travel, for one. He hadn't been out of the country since the war, and this trip would hardly be a gentle easing back into it. Good lord, Antarctica? What in blazes did he know about Antarctica, anyway? He couldn't recall ever sleeping outside except during the war, and he wasn't willing to think about that any more than he absolutely had to.
It would also mean that people would be reading what he wrote, that his words would receive the kind of scrutiny reserved for the most prominent authors and journalists. Was he ready for that? He wasn't sure. His stories had been getting more play in the paper's pages lately; he chuckled to himself a bit as he realized he'd dug his way out of obits of rich old industrialists and dogs biting men to start to cover some events for the national desk. They'd even used a couple of his photos, which was a big deal considering the importance the editors placed on pictures in this rag. But to have his every word out there for the world to see . . . ? New York wasn't exactly small-time, of course, but his work'd been buried in the middle of the paper mostly, and, truth be told, he'd rather liked the anonymity; it was small but safe inside his shell. Now he'd be Page One.
He'd become part of the story, too, as other "adventuring" journalists, such as Nellie Bly, had. You could talk forever about "objectivity," and journalism professors at Columbia University could high-mindedly talk about "keeping yourself out of the story," but any decent reporter with enough experience under his belt knew that he was always there between the lines, shaping the story, picking some details to include and others to leave out. And this story would take more out of him than most--he'd be a voice for the whole lot of them, and his name would be known. Was he ready for that kind of responsibility? Seems like he couldn't stop asking that question.
It might be good to get away, though, especially somewhere virtually unreachable like the end of the world. At least his ex's couldn't easily bug him, though, he thought ruefully, they'd also know where he was all the time, too.
But in truth the decision had already been made the moment his editor had decided that he, Jack, would be going--if he wanted to keep his job, that is, and he hadn't done well enough to lightly consider quitting. Jack couldn't tell whether Hugh, his editor, had been paying him a compliment by getting him this assignment or merely been trying to get Jack out of town, maybe forever. It was true, Jack thought--he did rub people the wrong way. Even his own son wouldn't speak to him anymore, and the two ex-Mrs. Wilsons only talked to him when they wanted something, usually money. The risks were there--he remembered vaguely what had happened to the last Antarctic expedition--but the rewards were beckoning, too. Something about the tone of Starkweather's message had, he had to admit, stirred something inside him; Starkweather's enthusiasm was contagious and appealed to the old romantic in Jack that he'd thought had died with the war.
A drink sounded good. Too good, in fact. Part of the crawl back had been crawling out of a bottle, and now that he was on (fairly) dry land, Jack had no great urge to drown himself again. Instead, he locked up his desk, took down his hat, and headed out for the consolation of a long, sobering walk around the neighborhood, trying to piece together his next steps. One step, he knew, would be getting some copies of National Geographic, or a map, or something . . .
"... I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted ..."
Reading using the fading daylight slipping through the blinds covering the window near his desk, Jack Wilson squinted at the words he'd read and reread a dozen times already. They were the words he'd both hoped for and dreaded. As Starkweather had said, this could be it, the story that got him noticed, pulled him back from the ledge of respectability that he'd so recently been dangling from, back onto firm ground and into the light of the world.
But it also raised the old fears. Travel, for one. He hadn't been out of the country since the war, and this trip would hardly be a gentle easing back into it. Good lord, Antarctica? What in blazes did he know about Antarctica, anyway? He couldn't recall ever sleeping outside except during the war, and he wasn't willing to think about that any more than he absolutely had to.
It would also mean that people would be reading what he wrote, that his words would receive the kind of scrutiny reserved for the most prominent authors and journalists. Was he ready for that? He wasn't sure. His stories had been getting more play in the paper's pages lately; he chuckled to himself a bit as he realized he'd dug his way out of obits of rich old industrialists and dogs biting men to start to cover some events for the national desk. They'd even used a couple of his photos, which was a big deal considering the importance the editors placed on pictures in this rag. But to have his every word out there for the world to see . . . ? New York wasn't exactly small-time, of course, but his work'd been buried in the middle of the paper mostly, and, truth be told, he'd rather liked the anonymity; it was small but safe inside his shell. Now he'd be Page One.
He'd become part of the story, too, as other "adventuring" journalists, such as Nellie Bly, had. You could talk forever about "objectivity," and journalism professors at Columbia University could high-mindedly talk about "keeping yourself out of the story," but any decent reporter with enough experience under his belt knew that he was always there between the lines, shaping the story, picking some details to include and others to leave out. And this story would take more out of him than most--he'd be a voice for the whole lot of them, and his name would be known. Was he ready for that kind of responsibility? Seems like he couldn't stop asking that question.
It might be good to get away, though, especially somewhere virtually unreachable like the end of the world. At least his ex's couldn't easily bug him, though, he thought ruefully, they'd also know where he was all the time, too.
But in truth the decision had already been made the moment his editor had decided that he, Jack, would be going--if he wanted to keep his job, that is, and he hadn't done well enough to lightly consider quitting. Jack couldn't tell whether Hugh, his editor, had been paying him a compliment by getting him this assignment or merely been trying to get Jack out of town, maybe forever. It was true, Jack thought--he did rub people the wrong way. Even his own son wouldn't speak to him anymore, and the two ex-Mrs. Wilsons only talked to him when they wanted something, usually money. The risks were there--he remembered vaguely what had happened to the last Antarctic expedition--but the rewards were beckoning, too. Something about the tone of Starkweather's message had, he had to admit, stirred something inside him; Starkweather's enthusiasm was contagious and appealed to the old romantic in Jack that he'd thought had died with the war.
A drink sounded good. Too good, in fact. Part of the crawl back had been crawling out of a bottle, and now that he was on (fairly) dry land, Jack had no great urge to drown himself again. Instead, he locked up his desk, took down his hat, and headed out for the consolation of a long, sobering walk around the neighborhood, trying to piece together his next steps. One step, he knew, would be getting some copies of National Geographic, or a map, or something . . .
Ok Tower, this is Dog-One, coming in. Is the runway clear?
Kitt waited a few moments for the response, at this point if the runway wasnt clear she would have to throw full throttle and climb back up. Under normal circumstances that wouldnt be a problem, today however was not normal. She was carrying 4 passengers, one of whom was hurt.
It was his own fault of course, not buckling in when she told them too. She got that a lot being a women. Men just didnt listen to her. Never mind the fact that she had been flying Aeroplanes since she could reach the stick. Never mind that she had been flying in the Himalayas for the last 6 years.
She grimaced as a wind shier pushed the tail to the side.
Get your head in the game Kitt.
Dog-One, tower, the runway is clear for you approach at One-Niner-Six, reduce speed, medical is standing by.
Kitt confirmed the bearing and then took the mic off her head. She needed total concentration. The wind was picking up and it was almost dark, if she didnt hit the runway just right, well it could be bad. She feathered the engine for some extra power, putting the nose up in the air. The Lockheed Y1C-12 responded like a champ. Her father had chosen Y1C specifically because it was designed for high altitude flying. Where the air is thinner and the planes respond a lot slower.
The wheels touched down in the hard mud sending a shudder through the whole plane. Kitt Throttled back slowly letting the engine go from Full Power to a mere idle, than a stop.
Wow, that was some flying lady. Kitt turned her head to the back seat, next time, buckle up when the pilot says so.
Sure thing. The fool smiled at her, his broken leg a testimony of his ignorance. He had been to busy trying to get to know her. She had warned him about not being buckled in several times, but he hadnt listened. While making a final pass on a perspective base camp, a sudden down draft slammed him against the cabin roof.
The landing done Kitt waited for the passengers to leave. She sat back in her seat, and took a few deep breaths. When she exited the plane she would be all smiles and sunshine. She wouldnt let on to them just how scared she was.
She waved to the crew as they went about their job, towing the plane to the hangar and checking the oil in the Pratt & Whitney engines. It was dark and very cold by the time she got to The Hangar, a little bar and grill on the edge of the makeshift airport. Most of the guides and pilots hung out at it after work. Her father was the owner/operator, she helped out on the weekends. It was a fun place, and she had a modicum of respect with the men who frequented it. They new she was a pilot, a dammed good one, and they new her father was also. Hanging above the bar was a bottle of un-opened French whine. A red Ribbon was tied around it with a card inside. Everyone knew what the card said, Good Hunting, - Manfred von Richthofen. The man who had shot her father down, the Red Baron.
Hey Kitt, the mail plane came in today, there is a letter for you here. Excitement colored her cheeks, it had been a month since she sent off her application to the expedition, and now here it was. She eagerly tore into the envelope and began reading aloud. Everyone in the bar new she was trying to join the Antarctic Expedition, so they all eagerly awaited.
Her hopes fell. The language in the letter was a thin veneer of hidden hostility. Rejected for just being a women, just a women. She threw the envelope down and kicked over the nearest chair. The bar was dead silent. John raised his only arm and put his hand on his daughters shoulder, sorry honey.
It was quiet enough that everyone could here it. Kitt wasnt used to being treated like a woman, wasnt used to it, and didnt like it. She wanted to be judged by her accomplishments. By her deeds.
Her shoulders relaxed, she let out a breath. Its okay Dad, I knew I wouldnt get in anyways. Im going to go help the ground crew out with After-Flight.
The older manned nodded, he watched helplessly as his beautiful daughter walked out of the bar, spirits crushed.
Kitt waited a few moments for the response, at this point if the runway wasnt clear she would have to throw full throttle and climb back up. Under normal circumstances that wouldnt be a problem, today however was not normal. She was carrying 4 passengers, one of whom was hurt.
It was his own fault of course, not buckling in when she told them too. She got that a lot being a women. Men just didnt listen to her. Never mind the fact that she had been flying Aeroplanes since she could reach the stick. Never mind that she had been flying in the Himalayas for the last 6 years.
She grimaced as a wind shier pushed the tail to the side.
Get your head in the game Kitt.
Dog-One, tower, the runway is clear for you approach at One-Niner-Six, reduce speed, medical is standing by.
Kitt confirmed the bearing and then took the mic off her head. She needed total concentration. The wind was picking up and it was almost dark, if she didnt hit the runway just right, well it could be bad. She feathered the engine for some extra power, putting the nose up in the air. The Lockheed Y1C-12 responded like a champ. Her father had chosen Y1C specifically because it was designed for high altitude flying. Where the air is thinner and the planes respond a lot slower.
The wheels touched down in the hard mud sending a shudder through the whole plane. Kitt Throttled back slowly letting the engine go from Full Power to a mere idle, than a stop.
Wow, that was some flying lady. Kitt turned her head to the back seat, next time, buckle up when the pilot says so.
Sure thing. The fool smiled at her, his broken leg a testimony of his ignorance. He had been to busy trying to get to know her. She had warned him about not being buckled in several times, but he hadnt listened. While making a final pass on a perspective base camp, a sudden down draft slammed him against the cabin roof.
The landing done Kitt waited for the passengers to leave. She sat back in her seat, and took a few deep breaths. When she exited the plane she would be all smiles and sunshine. She wouldnt let on to them just how scared she was.
She waved to the crew as they went about their job, towing the plane to the hangar and checking the oil in the Pratt & Whitney engines. It was dark and very cold by the time she got to The Hangar, a little bar and grill on the edge of the makeshift airport. Most of the guides and pilots hung out at it after work. Her father was the owner/operator, she helped out on the weekends. It was a fun place, and she had a modicum of respect with the men who frequented it. They new she was a pilot, a dammed good one, and they new her father was also. Hanging above the bar was a bottle of un-opened French whine. A red Ribbon was tied around it with a card inside. Everyone knew what the card said, Good Hunting, - Manfred von Richthofen. The man who had shot her father down, the Red Baron.
Hey Kitt, the mail plane came in today, there is a letter for you here. Excitement colored her cheeks, it had been a month since she sent off her application to the expedition, and now here it was. She eagerly tore into the envelope and began reading aloud. Everyone in the bar new she was trying to join the Antarctic Expedition, so they all eagerly awaited.
Her hopes fell. The language in the letter was a thin veneer of hidden hostility. Rejected for just being a women, just a women. She threw the envelope down and kicked over the nearest chair. The bar was dead silent. John raised his only arm and put his hand on his daughters shoulder, sorry honey.
It was quiet enough that everyone could here it. Kitt wasnt used to being treated like a woman, wasnt used to it, and didnt like it. She wanted to be judged by her accomplishments. By her deeds.
Her shoulders relaxed, she let out a breath. Its okay Dad, I knew I wouldnt get in anyways. Im going to go help the ground crew out with After-Flight.
The older manned nodded, he watched helplessly as his beautiful daughter walked out of the bar, spirits crushed.
"It appears that you may be venturing on an expedition shortly young Sir" The Seymour family butler hands James his confirmation letter from Mr Starkweather.
James reads the letter then, after replying, looks to see if one of his favourite cruise liners has a sailing that will be suitable to arrive into New York prior to the dinner.
James then instructs the Butler to make the necessary reservations and also to telegram his friend William in Boston to advise that he will be arriving into New York and will be delighted to accompany his younger sister to the Summer Ball as this, fortunatly, falls the week between the cruise lines arrival and the New York dinner.
Arranging a final weekend in the city with a small group of close friends at one of his favourite Gentlemens club he then makes arrangements for fittings for a suitable wardrobe for the trip.
James reads the letter then, after replying, looks to see if one of his favourite cruise liners has a sailing that will be suitable to arrive into New York prior to the dinner.
James then instructs the Butler to make the necessary reservations and also to telegram his friend William in Boston to advise that he will be arriving into New York and will be delighted to accompany his younger sister to the Summer Ball as this, fortunatly, falls the week between the cruise lines arrival and the New York dinner.
Arranging a final weekend in the city with a small group of close friends at one of his favourite Gentlemens club he then makes arrangements for fittings for a suitable wardrobe for the trip.
-
GaryTheNerd
- Layman
- Posts: 21
- Registered for: 18 years
- 18
- Location: St. Charles, Missouri, USA
- Contact:
"Hey everybody, drinks are on the house! Doc's goin' to Antarctica!"
The patron's of Sam's bar gave out a slurred cheer as the bartender turned back to Dr. Michaels.
"But are you sure you're ready for this, Doc? You haven't practiced in over two years."
Clark put his glass down and poured himself another shot.
"Sure I have, Sam. I've had a few people with bullet wounds who prefer the anonymity of a small doctor. I've also written quite a few prescriptions."
"What kind of prescriptions?"
"Hey Sam, do you think you can give me a ride to New York?"
The patron's of Sam's bar gave out a slurred cheer as the bartender turned back to Dr. Michaels.
"But are you sure you're ready for this, Doc? You haven't practiced in over two years."
Clark put his glass down and poured himself another shot.
"Sure I have, Sam. I've had a few people with bullet wounds who prefer the anonymity of a small doctor. I've also written quite a few prescriptions."
"What kind of prescriptions?"
"Hey Sam, do you think you can give me a ride to New York?"
Olof read the letter again. It is my great pleasure to inform you that have been accepted... He could hardly believe it. He was going to Antarctica! What an adventure! Olof had read about the Norwegian and Swedish explorers who had visited the Arctic and the Antarctica. Would he be numbered one of them now? Would the name of Olof Eriksson be whispered together with the names of Fritiof Nansen and Otto Nordensköld? Olof permitted himself to day-dream a bit before he got back to reality. It would be an adventure, but as they said in his old home country: you shouldn't sell the skin before the bear is shot. Success and fame should never be taken for granted. There would be a lot of hard work and preparations. Olof looked through the letter again. The dinner would be held in New York in the end of August, there would be a lot of time for preparations. Perhaps there would be time to study the blueprints for Professor Pabodie's drilling apparatus at greater length.
-
Charles Graves
- Acolyte
- Posts: 104
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Contact:
"Pompous fool!", muttered the Professor under his breath.
Charles Graves balled up Starkweather's patronising letter and threw it onto the crackling fire in the corner of the room.
He wasn't surprised by the supercilious tone of the reply to his letter of application. He had half expected the narrow-minded thinking of the military man, Starkweather to his proposal to add his anthropological knowledge to the study of the unearthed skeletal remains. After all, in the minds of many the whole subject is too close to the concept of evolution which terrifies so many of the uneducated masses.
Undeterred, Graves sits down at his desk and pens another letter to the expedition leader. This time he emphasises his medical expertise and encloses a generous cheque "to aid this noble enterprise".
As he seals the envelope he smiles to himself, he will bluff his way onto this expedition past it's foolish leader and the documenting of this 'missing link' will take him to the forefront of the scientific community.
Charles Graves balled up Starkweather's patronising letter and threw it onto the crackling fire in the corner of the room.
He wasn't surprised by the supercilious tone of the reply to his letter of application. He had half expected the narrow-minded thinking of the military man, Starkweather to his proposal to add his anthropological knowledge to the study of the unearthed skeletal remains. After all, in the minds of many the whole subject is too close to the concept of evolution which terrifies so many of the uneducated masses.
Undeterred, Graves sits down at his desk and pens another letter to the expedition leader. This time he emphasises his medical expertise and encloses a generous cheque "to aid this noble enterprise".
As he seals the envelope he smiles to himself, he will bluff his way onto this expedition past it's foolish leader and the documenting of this 'missing link' will take him to the forefront of the scientific community.
-
Ghost_1971
- Acolyte
- Posts: 185
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Location: Lancashire UK
- Contact:
"Excellent! I'll see you on July 31st then. Thank you very much for your help. Good bye." Callum puts down the telephone and smiles to himself. That's the travel sorted.
He reads the acceptance letter for, what must be, the 30th time. "It's about time too!" he chuckles "I've had my bags packed for weeks."
Whilst pouring a shot of finest single malt, Callum catches a glance of his reflection in the mirror. "Cheers Laddie. See you in New York!"
He reads the acceptance letter for, what must be, the 30th time. "It's about time too!" he chuckles "I've had my bags packed for weeks."
Whilst pouring a shot of finest single malt, Callum catches a glance of his reflection in the mirror. "Cheers Laddie. See you in New York!"
Kitt's soft blue eyes scanned the page again. She couldn't believe it. Just a week before she had been so incredibly angry over the rejection. Now it was reversed, she was so elated she could fly on her own. She was going to Ant-Arctic!
She fished out the rejection letter and turned it over. She hastily scrawled on the back,
She folded the letter and put it in a fresh envelope. She would send it on othe morrow. With any luck it would get to Moore before the Dinner. It would probably take that long just for her to get to the States.
She slid off the nose of the plane and landed gracefully on the ground and took off in a dead run. "DAD! I'M GOING!"
She fished out the rejection letter and turned it over. She hastily scrawled on the back,
Mr. William Moore, I will gladly accompany you on this exciting expedition. I believe I can be in New York city on time for the dinner. I look forward to meeting you. See you soon.
Miss Kitt Knight
Post Script
Thank you.
She folded the letter and put it in a fresh envelope. She would send it on othe morrow. With any luck it would get to Moore before the Dinner. It would probably take that long just for her to get to the States.
She slid off the nose of the plane and landed gracefully on the ground and took off in a dead run. "DAD! I'M GOING!"
William Turner's London Apartment.
Gazing into a tray at a forming image William sighs. Knocking it onto the floor he storms in frustration from the dim red glow of the dark room. Running a hand threw his ruffled hair he moves to the kitchen and prepares a coffee. A clack at the door signals the arrival of the post, picking up a few stray bills he notices a small dignified envelope. Opening his face turns from the retched frustration of a lack of inspiration he reads "Congratulations we have accepted you..." William shouts with joy then rushes to the phone to cancel all his contracts with his local London papers. This he has decided is he saviour.
That evening
Sitting at his writing desk William flicks threw a few journals documenting the miskatonic's fatal journey, while glancing at another book telling of Starkweathers exploits. All the while scribbling his feelings in a notebook and drinking copious amounts of coffee.
The next morning
With one hand sticking out the side of his bed he searches for a pencil and paper and even for his difficult positon pens a impressive acceptance in a grand script. William gets up and slips the letter into a envelope, it details his delighted acceptance and that he shall depart london on the RMS Berengaria cruise liner and will book a room in New York to start his grand documentation of the Starkweather expedition.
He settles down at his desk again and pens the opening paragraph of this great adventure.
Gazing into a tray at a forming image William sighs. Knocking it onto the floor he storms in frustration from the dim red glow of the dark room. Running a hand threw his ruffled hair he moves to the kitchen and prepares a coffee. A clack at the door signals the arrival of the post, picking up a few stray bills he notices a small dignified envelope. Opening his face turns from the retched frustration of a lack of inspiration he reads "Congratulations we have accepted you..." William shouts with joy then rushes to the phone to cancel all his contracts with his local London papers. This he has decided is he saviour.
That evening
Sitting at his writing desk William flicks threw a few journals documenting the miskatonic's fatal journey, while glancing at another book telling of Starkweathers exploits. All the while scribbling his feelings in a notebook and drinking copious amounts of coffee.
The next morning
With one hand sticking out the side of his bed he searches for a pencil and paper and even for his difficult positon pens a impressive acceptance in a grand script. William gets up and slips the letter into a envelope, it details his delighted acceptance and that he shall depart london on the RMS Berengaria cruise liner and will book a room in New York to start his grand documentation of the Starkweather expedition.
He settles down at his desk again and pens the opening paragraph of this great adventure.
New York
Lower Manhattan during the 1930s
It is August 1933. The New Deal passed during the spring, but swarms of unemployed workmen still haunt the streets. Artist and philanthropist Nicholas Roerich is to host a $100-a-plate charity dinner for draught-stricken Chinese in three weeks, while thousands starve in New York State alone, and bread queues are a common sight.
With a population at almost seven million according to the 1930 census, New York has been the worlds most populous city since surpassing London in 1925. And not only in terms of population is this great metropolis considered the worlds greatest, with the newly constructed Empire State Building towering over even the Chrysler Building and the Bank of Manhattans building on Wall Street, New York boasts the three tallest buildings in the world.
The Empire State Building 1933
On June 29th Primo Carnera knocked out Jack Sharkey in the sixth round at Madison Square Gardens to become the heavyweight champion of the world. Meanwhile the New York Giants prepare for a season that will see them take the title from the Chicago Bears. Monopoly is a popular new parlour game, the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice is preparing its friend of the court brief for the upcoming trial United States v. One Book Entitled Ulysses. Crowds flock to see the blockbuster King Kong, and Prohibition will be repealed soon
A View of 1930s Manhattan from atop the Chrysler Building
_____________________________________________________________
Kitt departs at once for Bombay, boarding a British India Liner, the MS Khandalla bound for London via the Suez Canal, Kitts ticket is only as far as Marseilles though, where she begins a rail journey across Euope, via Paris to the town of Friedrichshafen on the shore of Lake Constance, home base of the great airship Graf Zeppelin. Only when the airship rises into the skies bound for New York, via Rio de Janeiro does she allow herself to relax, shes going to make it, and what a way to travel! She finally arrives in New York on the 24th with one day to spare, the huge zeppelin departs bound for Germany on the same day.
Kitt arrives in New York aboard the LZ-127 Graf Zeppelin
Callum, William, Professor Graves and James each board their respective liners, and make the crossing without mishap. The newspapers of the world are eagerly reporting on the expedition, led by the famous explorer Captain Starkweather, and so each of them find that they cannot avoid being onboard celebrities for the duration of their crossings. This does however allow Professor Graves and James to become acquainted during the journey, and free drinks are aplenty for the explorers aboard the two British Liners. Callum fairs less well, as the SS America is bound by the rules of prohibition. Arriving in New York each books himself into the Amherst Hotel and finds that Starkweather has chosen well, the hotel is well appointed, but good value. Disappointingly Starkweather and Moore are both out of town making the final preparations for the expedition, but both will return to the hotel on the 25th for the Formal Dinner.
Grey Wolf says his goodbyes and begins the long journey south, he takes his time enjoying a last look at the beautiful terrain of his homelands. He arrives at the Amherst on the 24th, and settles into his room, ready for the Formal Dinner the following day.
Jack finds that his editor is delighted that he has secured the expedition post, suddenly the reporter is the flavour of the month, as his boss imagines the boost to sales, none of the Big Boys will have a reporter with the expedition, the Daily News will be the only paper to buy to read first hand accounts of the expedition.
McRaven, with the advantage of an aircraft has no trouble getting across Canada and down to New York, he finds himself booking into the Amherst on the 8th, at the same time as Scottish Mountaineer Callum McDonald.
Olof has to work his notice before being released from his contracts, his employer is reluctant to see the talented engineer go, but understands Olofs desire for adventure. He books into the Amherst hotel on the 25th and is also surprised to find the expedition principles missing, though at least he only has a couple of days to wait before meeting them.
Clark finds no shortage of offers for lifts to New York in exchange for a useful prescription or two for these hardened drinkers. He arrives in New York on the day of the Dinner, and checks straight into the hotel.
The expedition has two whole floors of the Amherst Hotel booked from the 25th onwards, so nobody needs to pay for accommodation beyond that date.
On the morning of the 25th a large sign is placed outside the Amhersts front doors.
Lower Manhattan during the 1930s
It is August 1933. The New Deal passed during the spring, but swarms of unemployed workmen still haunt the streets. Artist and philanthropist Nicholas Roerich is to host a $100-a-plate charity dinner for draught-stricken Chinese in three weeks, while thousands starve in New York State alone, and bread queues are a common sight.
With a population at almost seven million according to the 1930 census, New York has been the worlds most populous city since surpassing London in 1925. And not only in terms of population is this great metropolis considered the worlds greatest, with the newly constructed Empire State Building towering over even the Chrysler Building and the Bank of Manhattans building on Wall Street, New York boasts the three tallest buildings in the world.
The Empire State Building 1933
On June 29th Primo Carnera knocked out Jack Sharkey in the sixth round at Madison Square Gardens to become the heavyweight champion of the world. Meanwhile the New York Giants prepare for a season that will see them take the title from the Chicago Bears. Monopoly is a popular new parlour game, the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice is preparing its friend of the court brief for the upcoming trial United States v. One Book Entitled Ulysses. Crowds flock to see the blockbuster King Kong, and Prohibition will be repealed soon
A View of 1930s Manhattan from atop the Chrysler Building
_____________________________________________________________
Kitt departs at once for Bombay, boarding a British India Liner, the MS Khandalla bound for London via the Suez Canal, Kitts ticket is only as far as Marseilles though, where she begins a rail journey across Euope, via Paris to the town of Friedrichshafen on the shore of Lake Constance, home base of the great airship Graf Zeppelin. Only when the airship rises into the skies bound for New York, via Rio de Janeiro does she allow herself to relax, shes going to make it, and what a way to travel! She finally arrives in New York on the 24th with one day to spare, the huge zeppelin departs bound for Germany on the same day.
Kitt arrives in New York aboard the LZ-127 Graf Zeppelin
Callum, William, Professor Graves and James each board their respective liners, and make the crossing without mishap. The newspapers of the world are eagerly reporting on the expedition, led by the famous explorer Captain Starkweather, and so each of them find that they cannot avoid being onboard celebrities for the duration of their crossings. This does however allow Professor Graves and James to become acquainted during the journey, and free drinks are aplenty for the explorers aboard the two British Liners. Callum fairs less well, as the SS America is bound by the rules of prohibition. Arriving in New York each books himself into the Amherst Hotel and finds that Starkweather has chosen well, the hotel is well appointed, but good value. Disappointingly Starkweather and Moore are both out of town making the final preparations for the expedition, but both will return to the hotel on the 25th for the Formal Dinner.
Grey Wolf says his goodbyes and begins the long journey south, he takes his time enjoying a last look at the beautiful terrain of his homelands. He arrives at the Amherst on the 24th, and settles into his room, ready for the Formal Dinner the following day.
Jack finds that his editor is delighted that he has secured the expedition post, suddenly the reporter is the flavour of the month, as his boss imagines the boost to sales, none of the Big Boys will have a reporter with the expedition, the Daily News will be the only paper to buy to read first hand accounts of the expedition.
McRaven, with the advantage of an aircraft has no trouble getting across Canada and down to New York, he finds himself booking into the Amherst on the 8th, at the same time as Scottish Mountaineer Callum McDonald.
Olof has to work his notice before being released from his contracts, his employer is reluctant to see the talented engineer go, but understands Olofs desire for adventure. He books into the Amherst hotel on the 25th and is also surprised to find the expedition principles missing, though at least he only has a couple of days to wait before meeting them.
Clark finds no shortage of offers for lifts to New York in exchange for a useful prescription or two for these hardened drinkers. He arrives in New York on the day of the Dinner, and checks straight into the hotel.
The expedition has two whole floors of the Amherst Hotel booked from the 25th onwards, so nobody needs to pay for accommodation beyond that date.
On the morning of the 25th a large sign is placed outside the Amhersts front doors.
Starkweather-Moore Expedition to Antarctica Presentation
Washington Room Tonight 7:30pm
Last edited by Raiko on Thu Jul 06, 2006 7:47 am, edited 6 times in total.
-
Charles Graves
- Acolyte
- Posts: 104
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Contact:
"...No, I'm not married...No I don't have any pets...No I don't think we need to worry about the Abominable Snowman...Does no-one have any questions about science!!!"
An increasingly rankled Professor Graves has made the mistake of leaving the lobby of the hotel in order to take an early morning stroll only to be engulfed by a pack of the world's press. Although initially perturbed by the crashing flash-bulbs and barrage of voices he was hopeful of using this as an opportunity to make some serious scientific points. That hope was quickly killed by a bombardment of inane questions and now all he wishes is to be 'saved' from this scrum.
An increasingly rankled Professor Graves has made the mistake of leaving the lobby of the hotel in order to take an early morning stroll only to be engulfed by a pack of the world's press. Although initially perturbed by the crashing flash-bulbs and barrage of voices he was hopeful of using this as an opportunity to make some serious scientific points. That hope was quickly killed by a bombardment of inane questions and now all he wishes is to be 'saved' from this scrum.
James books into the hotel, finding it adequate, and is happy to be meeting other members of the expedition. He calls his old college chum, William, to arrange a brief jaunt down to Boston for 2 nights ensuring this does not clash with the dinner.
On the night of the dinner he dresses & is down in plenty of time for a pre-dinner drink, he would hate to think of any ladies that may joining the party for dinner to be there first as this would be most unchivalrous.
On the night of the dinner he dresses & is down in plenty of time for a pre-dinner drink, he would hate to think of any ladies that may joining the party for dinner to be there first as this would be most unchivalrous.
-
Ghost_1971
- Acolyte
- Posts: 185
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Location: Lancashire UK
- Contact:
Callum checks his tie, and adjusts it slightly. Hope this isnt a dry hotel too. He grimaces at the thought. Picking up his room key, he opens the door.
*FLASH* *FLASH* go the camera bulbs, from two photographers that must have sneaked in past the hotels doormen.
"What the?? Why you cheeky buggers! If you try that again, I'll kick your arse all the way back to Britain!". He quickly regains his composure and makes his way down to the dining room. This prohibition is going to be the death of me....... Or someone else, he smiles to himself.
*FLASH* *FLASH* go the camera bulbs, from two photographers that must have sneaked in past the hotels doormen.
"What the?? Why you cheeky buggers! If you try that again, I'll kick your arse all the way back to Britain!". He quickly regains his composure and makes his way down to the dining room. This prohibition is going to be the death of me....... Or someone else, he smiles to himself.
Getting ready for dinner
William, adjusts the bow tie once more. He's always hated these formal black tie affairs, but it's all part of the theatre being staged for the worlds press. Show of the expedition for the eager readers back home.
Lighting up a camel, McRaven looks himself over once more in the mirror and a with brief grunt of approval, turns and leaves his room. As He turns the key, locking the door, he hears all too clearly an outraged englishman yelling somewhere down the corridor. Looking over to where yells are coming from, he notices two photojournalists being chased out of a room.
"One of the late arrivals, and one of the more famous members no doubt" thought McRaven as he started down the corridor, walking past past the slightly indignant journalists, now with nothing to do but watch the retreating figure of their scoop disappear into one of the elevators.
He nods briefly at them and smiles.
"Better luck next time boys"
The two journalists look at each other in mild confusion, then their eyes widen as they come to the same conclusion.
"Hey, mate are you a member of this expedition?"
McRaven smiles again, but keeps walking, picking up his pace slightly, the second elevator not far from him now. He hears the thumping feet as the two hacks chase after him, calling for him to stop.
McRaven enters the elevator interior and then turns round to face the two men, faces flustered, their cameras raised slightly. McRaven takes another long draw on his camel and exhales forcefully, engulfing the two in the thick cloying smoke, making them cough and lower their cameras.
"Like I said before, better luck next time" said McRaven as the liftboy slammed the lift door closed.
"Thanks Johnny" Says McRaven handing over a couple of bucks. "Lobby please, time to rub shoulders with the high and mighty"
Lighting up a camel, McRaven looks himself over once more in the mirror and a with brief grunt of approval, turns and leaves his room. As He turns the key, locking the door, he hears all too clearly an outraged englishman yelling somewhere down the corridor. Looking over to where yells are coming from, he notices two photojournalists being chased out of a room.
"One of the late arrivals, and one of the more famous members no doubt" thought McRaven as he started down the corridor, walking past past the slightly indignant journalists, now with nothing to do but watch the retreating figure of their scoop disappear into one of the elevators.
He nods briefly at them and smiles.
"Better luck next time boys"
The two journalists look at each other in mild confusion, then their eyes widen as they come to the same conclusion.
"Hey, mate are you a member of this expedition?"
McRaven smiles again, but keeps walking, picking up his pace slightly, the second elevator not far from him now. He hears the thumping feet as the two hacks chase after him, calling for him to stop.
McRaven enters the elevator interior and then turns round to face the two men, faces flustered, their cameras raised slightly. McRaven takes another long draw on his camel and exhales forcefully, engulfing the two in the thick cloying smoke, making them cough and lower their cameras.
"Like I said before, better luck next time" said McRaven as the liftboy slammed the lift door closed.
"Thanks Johnny" Says McRaven handing over a couple of bucks. "Lobby please, time to rub shoulders with the high and mighty"
-
Decrepit
- Disciple
- Posts: 1031
- Registered for: 17 years 11 months
- 17
- Location: Iowa City, Iowa, USA
- Contact:
Jack inspected the Amherst from across the street. Around the front, he could see a phalanx of reporters and photographers, each person hoping to catch sight of anyone even remotely connected with the expedition. He even recognized some of the reporters hanging around the front door, and he knew that at least some of them would recognize him as well.
Having no wish to attract attention, Jack slipped around to a service entrance, pushing through a kitchen and a laundry area to the quizzical glances of hotel workers wondering what a well-dressed gentleman was doing in the bowels of the inn.
Asking around, Jack found his way to the lobby and picked up his key at the front desk. A stray journalist or two could be seen skittering about, chasing one person, than another, all in vain as it turned out.
"Hell of a day, huh?" Jack asked the man at the front desk as he picked up his key.
"Y-yes, sir," the man said, beads of sweat starting to coalesce on his forehead. "Never in my years here, sir, have I seen such discord! In any case, sir, I'm sure that you are aware of the reception. Let me know if you require anything."
Jack grinned and headed for the elevator, hat covering his face as much as possible. A quick shower, shave, and change were in order. Sure, he could've done all of that before coming here, but he wanted to be as discreet as possible, wearing his everyday clothes in and having his bags, including some spiffy new clothes, sent over earlier. Besides, he'd let go his apartment in the city; the expedition was now his home.
Having no wish to attract attention, Jack slipped around to a service entrance, pushing through a kitchen and a laundry area to the quizzical glances of hotel workers wondering what a well-dressed gentleman was doing in the bowels of the inn.
Asking around, Jack found his way to the lobby and picked up his key at the front desk. A stray journalist or two could be seen skittering about, chasing one person, than another, all in vain as it turned out.
"Hell of a day, huh?" Jack asked the man at the front desk as he picked up his key.
"Y-yes, sir," the man said, beads of sweat starting to coalesce on his forehead. "Never in my years here, sir, have I seen such discord! In any case, sir, I'm sure that you are aware of the reception. Let me know if you require anything."
Jack grinned and headed for the elevator, hat covering his face as much as possible. A quick shower, shave, and change were in order. Sure, he could've done all of that before coming here, but he wanted to be as discreet as possible, wearing his everyday clothes in and having his bags, including some spiffy new clothes, sent over earlier. Besides, he'd let go his apartment in the city; the expedition was now his home.
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 2 guests