Almost—but not quite defeated, Czar put a last question, foolishly. “If it’s true—and I don’t swallow it by a damn sight—what do you want here? What are you doing here? What have you got out of it!”

“I’ve lived the life I wanted to live. I’ve earned my living as you know, fishing in the summer season, trapping in the winter, I’ve studied the people, I’ve read and learned. And I started the little weekly paper. And I’ve written. In another three years Christine will be twenty. Twenty! I was twenty only yesterday. I’ve seen this great icy treasure land plundered and almost wrecked by men like you, Czar. It’s an anachronism in this day and age, it’s like a story you’ve read out of the past. But I’ve put it all down, day after day, year after year, everything, all of it. The Eskimos, the Russians, the traders, the Hudson’s Bay crowd, the New England shipowners, this place they called Seward’s Folly and Seward’s Icebox when it became part of this country. And then Congress after Congress and Administration after Administration that would allow no settler to take title to land, or clear a bit of wilderness land and claim it. And the plunderers, the robbers with their lobbies in Washington. I’ve got it all down now—or almost all. Maybe no one will ever read it. The history of this Alaska, locked in her ice palace, with Outsiders holding the golden key.”

Czar stood up, his hands in his pockets, he began to pace the room, he threw a glance over his shoulder at Thor, as though to catch him unawares. Suddenly, “Christine know this? Any of it?”

“No, no! I told you that. That’s the bargain.”

“What would her—uh—her title be?”

“Nothing.”

“She’s the daughter of a fella whose father is supposed to be a—well, anyway, was—–”

“You see how foolish it sounds! Counts are passé and barons and kings and queens and princesses. Even bogus kings like you and that great noisy Husack and little Kleet who is like a jackal at one of the twelfth-century courts—even you are passing. By the time Christine is a woman and has children of her own you and all your kind will be as mythical as old-fashioned royalty. I hope.”

But Czar was not listening, he was pursuing his own thoughts. Almost wistfully he mused aloud. “I’d have liked Christine to be a—what was it?—a—–”

“She isn’t. If you repeat any of this I’ll deny it. I’ll deny it as a joke. Old Thor, the Swensky. Thor, the blacksmith. What a snob you are, Czar! You build banks and movie houses and high buildings. You pretend to be plain and simple. You love power and position.”

“You two,” Bridie commanded, emerging from her daze, “stop calling each other names and get practical. It was Chris’s schooling started this, so let’s go back to it.” She eyed Czar craftily. “I’m holding this check for ten thousand, made out to Chris. I guess you don’t think what Thor’s been telling us is a disgrace, exactly. Well, then?”