“Remember this, Christine. Never mark a book. It’s an impertinence to the next reader. Books should be cherished, like children, books are for the next generation, like children, like history.”

She was less impressed than once she had been by these pronouncements and philosophies. Throughout her strange childhood she had thought Thor and Czar and Bridie infallible, they were infinitely superior to all other human beings. But lately she had noticed that Alaskans were referring to them as “characters.” They did this admiringly and even fondly, wagging their heads and smiling. “Yessir, Thor sure is a character.… Czar’s a character, all right.… Bridie Ballantyne is a real character. She kills me!”

If the crew found her presence a handicap in the confines of the little boat they gave no indication, they behaved toward her like indulgent uncles. The cook even allowed her to turn out a batch of sourdough pancakes and was not too resentful when they actually proved to be superior to his.

“Thin,” Chris explained, very graciously. “And delicate. Everybody makes pancakes too thick. Especially men. Like big flannel poultices.”

Curiously enough, she remembered that salmon-fishing trip as an exhilarating time. It did not occur to her that her manner of life differed from that of other girls except, perhaps, in the matter of enhancement. Here she was, gay and yet relaxed, she could not account for it, she did not try. She would turn on the radio and now and then something would come through—a squawk of news, a crooner’s whine. She was in and out, buffeted by the cold wind, soothed by the cabin’s coffee-scented warmth.

“I feel as if I were floating in a vacuum,” she said.

“You’re afloat, all right,” Thor said. “I hope. Maybe you’re drinking too much coffee. Scandinavians and Alaskans are coffee drunkards. You inherit from both sides.”

“Are we going to Oogruk this summer?”

“Depends.”

“Ross Guildenstern said that if he knew the date ahead of time he might wangle things so as to pilot us.”

He looked at her, thoughtfully. “Perhaps we’ll put it off until next year.”

“Oh, no!”

“We could do Oogruk and Barrow both. We might invite Bridie to come along, if it isn’t too rough a trip for her.”

“But why! Why!”

“Bridie’s got common sense. Bridie knows what’s good for you better than I do.”

“You promised.”

“I promised we’d go. And we will. Next summer will be your last summer before Seattle. You’ll be older.”

“Older? For what? You don’t have to be old to go to Oogruk.”

“Why are you so crazy about Oogruk all of a sudden?”

“I’ve always wanted to see it. It sounds fascinating.” Then, naively, “Ross Guildenstern was born there. He knows everybody in Oogruk.”

“That would make it more interesting,” he said, rather flatly. “Of course I know Oogruk pretty well.” He was silent. She waited. “We’ll see. Far North Alaska is a big bite to digest. Next summer might be best.”

At the fishing grounds the vastness of the salmon catch stunned her. The silver horde, she thought. She knew now what it meant. The mass lay piled and glistening in the boat. Thor and the crew had worked unceasingly through the days and the white nights; they had worked, not like men, but like machines, they had not slept, they scarcely had eaten. The sight of men working at top speed was familiar to Chris. She had seen this all her life in Alaska where everyone—men and women—worked with tenacity and dogged courage for actual survival. But this labor at the salmon-fishing grounds was an orderly frenzy of activity. Thor and the crew ignored her. Throughout this brief period of intensity, if she spoke to Thor, he looked at her absently and did not reply. There was no time for living, there was only motion in the pursuit of this brilliant swirling mass of quick-silver.