“The Snow Leopard,” he said, looking up briefly.
“Brother Smalls.”
Past him, the studio had a padded swing door with a porthole window. On the outside was a hand-painted sign reading: On Air, and over that, a red light had been installed. Beneath was a speaker, its heavy wire leading into the compact broadcast space. There were several folding chairs set up for listeners. No one was there yet.
Inside, the engineer, Wally Carlyle was waiting for Henson. He was a youngish white man with a crew cut, natty bowtie and pressed blue shirt.
“Hello, Matt,” he said.
“How’s it going, Wally?”
“The same ol’ jive, man,” The engineer, a jazz fan, said. A control console had been built in the room. There were several other instruments in the small room, as well. Carlyleflipped several toggle switches on the main console, tapping his finger on the extended microphone to check the sound level. He noted the flux of needles on his gages and turned one two knobs with the precision of a surgeon. Henson locked the door and flicked on the “On Air” light.
He then sat on a stool at the end of the console, the engineer positioned the microphone on its swing arm over him. Both of them looked at the wall clock to check the time. Henson shifted in his seat, adjusting the microphone. He placed his papers on the console and cleared his throat. The engineer sat down, too and, eyes back to the clock, counted down with his fingers pointed at Henson. He got to his index finger and jabbed it toward the other man while he flipped two switches, bringing them live on the airwaves.
“And now, faithful listeners,” came the mellifluous voice of stage actor Warren William over the recording lathe, “once again it is time for the weekly installment of Strange Journeys. From the Aztecs to the Yoruba, from the Ting Dynasty to the War of the Roses, you’ll hear tales of tropical jungles in unforgiving climes, fantastic treks through the sun-drenched deserts of lost kingdoms and expeditions into the lands of ice and snow.” A dramatic pause, then William concluded, “I give you now your host, the hunter, trapper, linguist, and storied man of tomorrow…today, Matthew Alexander Henson.”
Carlyle winked at Henson as he stopped the recording device. It was a bit much, Henson knew, but Lacy DeHavilin had insisted on engaging William’s services and had written the over-the-top introduction herself. Wickedly, she’d included a line about his privates being the size of a mule’s but thankfully only he had read that passage. Though, dammit, he had the unerring feeling the unexpurgated version would show up one day, probably in her ribald memoir. Focusing, he began, reading a passage from his book.
“The route to Cape Columbia is through a region of somber magnificence. Huge beetling cliffs overlook the pathway; dark savage headlands, around which we had to travel, project out into the ice-covered waters of the ocean, and vast stretches of wind-swept plains meet the eye in alternate changes.” Henson finished the reading and segued from setting the scene into a story about Roald Amundsen and the flight of the Norge, a dirigible designed by General Umberto Nobile, to reach the North Pole two years ago.
“The airship and her sixteen-man crew not only reached the Pole, but went on to Alaska as planned,” Henson said into the microphone. “Overall, their flight covered more than 6,000 miles, a lot of that unexplored territory. Can you imagine?” he breathed, “what that must have been like? The excitement and exhilaration of seeing that uncharted vast area? I can tell you from personal experience, my friends, there’s no thrill quite like it, you and the wilderness of snow and wonder.”
The engineer dipped his head in appreciation of the picture Henson had painted.
He continued, “Unfortunately, my dear audience, once success was achieved, Amundsen and Nobile had a falling out, as each believed he should get the lion’s share of the credit for the Arctic flight.” He looked off into the distance, a crooked smile composing his features. “But really, the lesson to be learned in these sort of endeavors is that it’s a team effort that’s key. Only in working together can the hardships Mother Nature and mankind throw at us be overcome.”
The engineer nodded.
“Next week, I’ll conclude with the excursion the two were involved in earlier this year.” He lowered his voice as he ended the sentence, an ominous foreshadowing of events. For both men had perished after recently having returned to the unyielding top of the world. Nobile had gone missing in the airship Italia, and Amundsen had joined the search for his estranged friend. His plane crashed and he died. Nobile was never found.
The half-hour broadcast also included Henson answering letters from his listeners. He rustled papers louder than normal for a sound effect at the start of this segment. “I have a letter from a Miss Thelma Rudolph who asks if I’ll ever again return to the North Pole. She also asks why we don’t have a fund drive among our churches to sponsor an expedition of a select sampling of our negro leaders and I lead them there.” Henson set the letter aside, an open envelope paperclipped to it.
“Well, Miss Rudolph, that sounds like a fine undertaking, one that plucks the strings of my heart. But right now, what with rent parties a necessity and groceries going up in Harlem, seems it be best to concentrate money-making efforts closer to home. While we do own some properties but plenty
