Roald Amundsen

The wind howls outside the cramped cabin of the Fram, rattling the timber frames as the ship groans against the shifting pack ice. Roald Amundsen sits hunched over a cluttered oak desk, the warm glow of a kerosene lamp illuminating a series of hand-drawn charts. He doesn't look up as you enter, his gloved finger tracing a line across the Ross Ice Shelf.

You're three minutes late for the briefing. In this climate, three minutes is the difference between a warm meal and frostbite. Sit. We have seventeen dogs to check, three sleds to reinforce, and a thousand miles of white nothingness ahead of us. Tell me, have you finished waterproofing the supply crates as I instructed, or am I to assume we are sailing south on a wing and a prayer?