I am just going outside

The race is run.

So that was it. My time has come and so much earlier than I always imagined. Scott, Wilson and Birdie are calm and collected. I've been wondering what's going on in their heads all day. They know as well as I do that we can't possibly make it if they don't leave me behind. And yet none of them want to hear about it. Not even Scott. In the end, you get to know people best when they and you are at your worst...

The wind rattles our tarpaulin so much that we instinctively grab the poles, but it is stable, as it has proven for three months now. My frozen feet have nothing to do with the nights, but with the days. The race took all our strength, and for what?

To end up as a bloody postman for the winner. None of this, with the possible exception of the death of Evans, is more upsetting to Scott. Actually, I should be grateful to Amundsen for that. But this continent has no sympathy for disputes between mates and I wouldn't wish death on anyone or defeat on an Englishman in a competition.

Very well. I delay the inevitable.

Our deliberations have shown very clearly what the best way to end his life is. In the absence of a fucking revolver that could have made everything so much quicker and easier. Birdie looks at me with his brow furrowed as if he's trying to effect a cure by sheer force of will. And Wilson still tries to smile when I look at him. He's a good man. Perhaps the best of us.

A last gasp of civilisation and camaraderie. But you can't run away forever.

I stand up. The pain bites at me, but I know it will be over soon, so I look over it proudly.

Scott wants to get up too, but I wave him off.

"Save your strength. You'll need them."

All three lower their heads as if on command.

How do I say this now? What will be my last words for human ears? What will remain of me when they think of the losers of the toughest race in the world? Never mind. What does it matter? Everything I had previously thought about falls apart in this moment that drags and drags.

"I am just going outside and may be some time."

I try to get out of the tent without getting tangled up.

The icy wind welcomes me with open arms and the familiar feeling of a misplaced razor blade on my face. It's the worst barber in the world, this wind. But I've often shouted that at him. It didn't help. Nothing helped. Not praying and not biting. Not hope and not despair. Not the fear of death. Because we can all pretend that it would be easy to take this step and give our lives for those of our comrades, but if we are honest with ourselves, we are still afraid.

And fear is the only thing colder than this white world that surrounds me now. Every step further away makes it easier. Now it's unstoppable, now I can't turn back. That's what makes walking at all possible, with these damn chilblains.

Thirty-two. Thirty-two.

Not a lot when you think about it. I start humming: Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. The white becomes thicker, if that's even possible, and by now I can't feel anything. Not my arms, not my legs and not even my face.

Is that how it is when you die? Does everything just stop bit by bit? I'm still walking, at least that's what my narrowed eyes tell me. And my ears? The constant roaring and howling of the storm reminds them of the journey on the Terra Nova. A few more screaming sailors and it would be perfect. And the typical rocking of the ship is missing, of course, but you can't have everything. I wish I knew what the three of them were doing right now. What they're saying, what they're thinking. Whether they are relieved or sad. I'll make sure they tell me about it in heaven.

The wind dies down. It becomes calmer and visibility improves. I turn round, but I can't see any sign of the tent or myself. The snow has a strange glow, as if it is being illuminated from within.

That must be it. I stand still. I can't go any further, but it should be far enough. And now I can finally let myself fall. Into the lap of the world, which has also spat me out. My field of vision tilts forwards, but there are no more contours, there is nothing to guide my gaze. Everything is white and empty and...

...and soft?

Nothing in this area is soft. Even the fur-trimmed clothes are frozen and stiff. Why does it feel soft? Has my mind dissolved? Everything is gone. I can't see any more arms, no storm, not my knees struggling out of the blanket of snow. What is happening here?

In the next moment, it is suddenly dark, as if a cloth were covering my eyes. The changeover is exhausting. The change from outside to inside had always been a real relief after a long day in the ice. A dark cave. Our dark cave.

And then I hear the dripping.

Not far away, from the sound of it. Possibly even very close. It's a "bluop", like when a particularly large drop hits a shallow water surface.

bluop. And again. How do drops get to this area? Where is the hardness of the wind? Where is the bite of the ice? It remains black before my eyes until finally something white appears again. Small, it emerges in the centre. It gets bigger with every drop until I can recognise that it is letters. White letters on a black background. I strain my eyes, but I still can't make out what the drop is all about.

The letters form words and the words form sentences. I tilt my head to read what it says.

"Don't panic! It's a completely natural process. Everyone is confused when they enter a VUITRAI for the first time. They are not dead. This is not the afterworld. You have experienced a full-circumference immersion dream, which may trigger phantom pains and phantom images in your body. Take a deep breath and now remove the electrodes on either side of your ears."

I opened my eyes again. The dripping was coming from an infusion tube.

The blanket above me and the bed I was lying on were white. I shook myself, but the vision remained. My brain tried to process what had just happened and slowly the real memories came back and mixed with the artificially generated ones. So that was how the race to the South Pole had ended for Lawrence Oates. Truly a strange and yet heroic story.

And perhaps that was the moment I decided not to go on a skiing holiday this year.