“Well, say,” the young Tennesseean drawled, “I thought you said that guy was an Eskimo. How come he rates an extra blanket and drinking milk? I thought they lived in snow houses and ate blubber and raw fish.”

“They do,” Chris said, “when they have to—that is, would if they had to. That young man’s name is Frankie Ipoluk, he’s hurt his leg, he pulled a ligament or something, he’s going home this vacation. Frankie is the basketball champion of all the Alaska High School League teams. He’s been going to Baranof High but his folks live in Oogruk.”

“Champion! No kidding! Say! I’d like to talk to him. Does he talk English?”

“Oh, yes.” Politely. “Frankie’s planning to be a teacher—a schoolteacher. He won a scholarship and he’s going to Baranof College next year.” She returned to her seat.

The middle-aged man in the eyeglasses and the Basque beret had been padding up and down the aisle peering through every window except that which belonged to his own seat. He now stopped beside Chris and Thor.

“How do you do, sir,” he said, very formally.

Thor cheerfully returned the greeting as one who, for fifty years, has been addressed by strangers.

“You made this trip before?” the man asked.

“Yes. Many times.”

“Is that right!” He seemed relieved at this. He raised his voice to address the woman of the flowered hat. “Irma, this gentleman here has made this trip a lot of times.” He turned again to Thor. “All right, is it? I mean, this plane,” he indicated the moose stacked layer on layer to the cabin’s roof, “and those mountains out there, Irma thought it might get to be kind of rugged. But you say it’s all right?”

His grayish face, his graying hair, the eyeglasses, the gray gloves, the topcoat, gave him the look of a retired insurance salesman, perhaps, or an accountant who had cannily invested in an annuity.

“You can relax and enjoy every minute of the trip,” Thor assured him. “The record of this line is just about perfect. And the land around here is what they call permafrost ground. It’s frozen all the year round. You can put a plane down on it anywhere, any time.”

“Say! I wouldn’t want to do that.” Uneasily he looked out at the formidable landscape. “You live around here?”

“I live in Baranof.”

“You Alaskans, you’re great kidders.” The man’s laugh was as uneasy as his glance had been. “We played Baranof. Maybe you caught our act?”

“No,” Thor said. “You mean—–?” His mind rejected it.

The man extended his hand. “Polar is my name. Alwin Polar. My wife Irma back of you there.”

“Storm. Thor Storm. This is my granddaughter Christine Storm.”

“Happy to make your acquaintance,” the man said. “We played Juneau Anchorage and Baranof so that makes us old sourdoughs I tell Irma. The Roller Polars our act is called, we do an act on roller skates, so the title isn’t only catchy, it describes the act.”