“I think somebody ought to stop Grampa,” Chris whispered.

“Sh! It’s real interesting,” Bridie said, reprovingly.

“… but the Natives visit back and forth in their skin boats, they’re related, they even intermarry, each tries to tell the other how much better his island is. They have radios, they have phonographs, mechanical luxuries of all kinds. Food. Clothes. Books. They are a miniature example of mankind inhabiting the planet Earth. Once they lived in comparative peace, separated by distance and natural obstacles. Now they are united by the inventions of modern science and torn apart by fear of each other. The Big Diomede Eskimo says to the Little Diomede Eskimo, ‘Come, cross the water. Here the Eskimos are allowed to oil the machines, cure the sick, live with Russian women, spit on merchants, go to Moscow, become captains!’ The Little Diomede Eskimo says, ‘We are free citizens of the great Republic of the United States of America. The fish we catch are ours, and the whales are ours, no one can claim them from us.’ But the Big Diomede Eskimos laugh at this and they say, ‘We have been told about you, we know you are slaves, all the people of Alaska are slaves, they cannot even say who shall be their President. But rest, be patient, one day we shall come and free you.’

“This is why I wanted to talk to you, passengers with me on this trip. When you look down, like gods, on the Diomede Islands you are not only looking at two little barren bleak islands, you are looking at the whole world today—–”

The plane began to bank.

From the Roller Polars then there came a little salvo of applause. They knew entertainment when they saw and heard it, and they gave it its due. But the other passengers pressed against the windows with a complete concentration of attention. Their faces were immobile, even the eyelids did not move. Thor Storm stood a moment at the rear of the plane, a Jovian figure.

“That was really lovely,” said Miss Larson.

The Dew Line men and the Eskimo boys had listened respectfully enough. They had encountered queerer than this and would again, they knew, in this wild unpredictable country. When Thor had finished they stared out at the formidable scene below and all about. Only one—the youngest among them—said very low to his seatmate, “The old guy has lost his marbles.” But the older man said, “You should be as smart as him when you’re his age. Or now, Buster.”

Christine, alone at a window, turned and called to Thor, holding out her hand. “Come sit here with me, Grampa Thor. Please.”

He sat beside her, he leaned toward her, together they peered out toward the gray sheet that lay ahead.

“It was wonderful of you to do that, just for this little handful of people.”

“It’s all in my book, dear child. And I’ll write a piece about this trip for the paper next week. Maybe, someday, you’ll be doing that. And I’ll talk a little to these Dew Line boys here before we reach Barrow. I like to know what you young people are thinking.”