uth. My nose is still cold."

Dan's eyebrows went up. "And how was Dr. Aviado? I haven't seen a
report from Antarctica Project for five years."

"Yes you have. You just couldn't read them. Aviado is quite a
theoretician. That's how he got his money and his Project, down there,
with plenty of room to build his reflectors and nobody around to get
hurt if something goes wrong. Except a few penguins. And he's done a
real job of development down there since his rejuvenation."

"Ah." Dan glanced up hopefully.

"Now there," said Carl, "is a real lively project. Solar energy into
power on a utilitarian level. The man is fanatic, of course, but with
his plans he could actually be producing in another five years." He
lit a cigarette, drew on it as though it were bitter.

"Could?"

"Seems he's gotten sidetracked a bit," said Carl.

Dan glanced at Terry Fisher. "How?"

"Well, his equipment is working fine, and he can concentrate solar
heat from ten square miles onto a spot the size of a manhole cover.
But he hasn't gone too far converting it to useful power yet." Carl
suddenly burst out laughing. "Dan, this'll kill you. Billions and
billions of calories of solar heat concentrated down there, and what
do you think he's doing with it? He's digging a hole in the ice two
thousand feet deep and a mile wide. That's what."

"A hole in the ice!"

"Exactly. Conversion? Certainly--but first we want to be sure we're
right. So right now his whole crew is very busy _trying to melt down
Antarctica_. And if you give him another ten years, he'll have it
done, by god."

* * * * *

This was the last, most painful trip of all.

Dan didn't even know why he was going, except that Paul had told him
he should go, and no stone could be left unturned.

The landing in New York Crater had been rough, and Dan had cracked his
elbow on the bulkhead; he nursed it now as he left the Volta on the
deserted street of the crater city, and entered the low one-story
lobby of the groundscraper. The clerk took his name impassively, and
he sat down to wait.

An hour passed, then another.

Then: "Mr. Devlin will see you now, Senator."

Down in the elevator, four--five--six stories. Above him was the
world; here, deep below, with subtly efficient ventilators and shafts
and exotic cubby-holes for retreat, a man could forget that a world
above existed.

Soft lighting in the corridor, a golden plastic door. The door swung