92 CHALLENGER 



Soon the ship was steaming up Hvalfjord, wild mountains 

 towering on either hand, all of the same peculiar formation, with 

 flattish summits and precipitous rocky sides dropping away for 

 about half their height, after which they sloped in great screes 

 scattered with boulders until they merged into the green fields 

 of the coastal strip. Here and there farm houses lay dwarfed by 

 the towering rocks, their small fields, sheep pens and cattle sheds 

 with cattle and sheep looking like children's toy farms. 



As the ship steamed slowly up the fjord, sounding her way in 

 these well-nigh uncharted waters, Bragi Kristiansson stood on the 

 open bridge with the Captain and Tim Connell, the navigator, 

 as he pointed out the chief landmarks and named the farmsteads 

 and the rivers, the latter of engaging interest to Tim, an ardent 

 fisherman, who had heard of the great salmon fishing to be had 

 in Iceland. Perhaps he would be able to fit in just a few hours of 

 fishing in the weeks ahead. Gradually the fjord turned to star- 

 board and more and higher mountains came into view, their flat 

 tops carrying the eye beyond them to the snow-clad peaks of 

 Botnsular. 



Rounding the promontory of Hofdi the ship slowed and came 

 to anchor. No craft of any kind had been seen on the glassy waters 

 of the fjord, nor had people been moving in the fields ; it seemed 

 to those onboard Challenger that they were steaming alone into 

 the heart of an empty, peaceful land beyond this world and far 

 from the bloody scenes in France of which they heard as each 

 hopeless news bulletin followed another over the ship's radio. 



But as the rumble of her anchor cable shattered the silence of 

 the fjord people came running from the farmsteads to the water's 

 edge to stare at this small grey ship, with a strange flag flying at 

 her stern. Challenger was the forerunner of war which was now 

 reaching even this remote and lovely place. These people were 

 to see more and more ships as the days passed, first naval trawlers 

 and boom vessels, then store ships, tankers and hospital ships, 

 each with her boats and tenders, and finally the great grey shapes 

 of cruisers gliding into the fjord. The clean beaches were soon 

 to become sullied with floating refuse, the rusting drums, floats, 

 seamen's caps, lifejackets, boathook staves, and many other ugly 

 pieces of flotsam that scatter the shores whenever a great fleet of 

 warships is at anchor. Strange sailors and soldiers were soon to 



