Isten held up the gauge. “Another three inches gone.” He shook his head and headed back to the tent. “We’re losing ice at an incredible rate. I think this might be the year the cap disappears completely.”
Marsbrook was heating the kettle for tea. “Bad news,” he said. Marsbrook treated words like precious objects.
“Bad? It could be apocalyptic!” Isten dropped to kneel by the cookstove. “The weather, ocean levels, saline concentration. Not to mention…” he trailed off, glancing at the dark shape just visible beneath the mountain of ice. “Yesterday, I thought I saw it move, just a little.”
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
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