Lost

He didn't dare tell the men. Not yet. What could he tell them? The weather had been beastly, but he had failed to obtain adequate readings while the skies were clear. So the fault was his and his alone. And telling the men now, no matter whose fault it was, would only weigh them down, and he needed them light and strong and supple, in mind as well as body.

Holland was still upright, as it were. Still squeezing a laugh out of tight places, as they say. The worse the spot, the louder Holland's laugh. He wasn't the strongest of the bunch, or the smartest. He was fair on ski and passing good with the dogs, but it was his iron spirit that had secured his spot on the team. The rain, the wind, the sleet. Where they ground some men down, flecking them into unusability, they polished Holland to a shine. And Holland could prop up two or three others, as sure as walking sticks. Manly was holding, as were Dell and James. The others, he wasn't confident of.

If he couldn't find their course or at least find a suitable place for camp in the next few hours, the festering mood would spread like gangrene. He had seen it happen before. The more important provision wasn't the food, he knew, or the ski or the fuel or the dogs. It was mood. The right mood could power men over the worst terrain and pick them up again and again when they fell. The mood of this party was acceptable, but falling with the mercury.

It's not honesty that powers men on, it's the right lies. And the lie he told, with Holland's booming laugh, was that everything was rolling on the tracks he's laid six months ago. When asked about direction or course, he didn't hesitate one second. The sure readiness of his answer meant more than the words. He knew he might be taking them all farther and farther from where they should be. Better to freeze later than burn now.