JACK CRIED out. He was exhausted and short of breath. The sweat stung bitterly when it dripped into his eyes, and it left a brackish taste on his lips. The air had changed. It was sea air, and he’d smelled it miles away. Anyone who knew the sea could detect its fragrance in the unlikeliest of places — in the grimy industrial air of New York City and the bone-dry California deserts, in the rainy mountains of Washington State and the dusty Texas plains. Salt had no odor, and neither did water — but together with the rotting algae, the fish carcasses, and the mold in the air, the scent was unmistakable. To a sailor, it was perfume. All three teams slowed to a halt. The ice here was crisscrossed with webbed footprints, the distant ridges lined with penguins, gulls, and terns. A lone skua swooped overhead, screaming. In the distance, a gliding bird plummeted from the sky toward its prey below. The dogs yapped madly, lurching toward the birds, pulling the sledges in all directions. Over the last two days, the pulling had become almost impossible.
