"There isn't much between us and the Arctic Ocean, Greggy," he
said. "See that light off there, like a great fire that has half a
mind to die out one minute and flares up the next? Doesn't it
remind you of the night we got away from Carabobo, when Donna
Isobel pointed out our way to us, with the moon coming up over the
mountains as a guide? That isn't the moon. It's the aurora
borealis. You can hear the wash of the Bay down there, and if
you're keen you can catch the smell of icebergs. There's Fort
Churchill--a rifle-shot beyond the ridge, asleep. There's nothing
but Hudson's Bay Company's posts, Indian camps, and trappers
between here and civilization, which is four hundred miles down
there. Seems like a quiet and peaceful country, doesn't it?
There's something about it that makes you thrill and wonder if
this isn't the biggest part of the universe after all. Listen!
Hear the Indian dogs wailing down at Churchill! That's the primal
voice in this world, the voice of the wild. Even that beating of
the surf is filled with the same thing, for it's rolling up
mystery instead of history. It is telling what man doesn't know,
and in a language which he cannot understand. You're a beauty
scientist, Greggy.
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