By Kiera Dellacroix
Buried deep lower than the ice of Antarctica is anything that pursuits the U.S. govt. Secretly, and in violation of foreign treaty, a workforce of scientists and armed forces group of workers were operating deep underground to arrive it.
Lieutenant Commander Malory Lovecraft, an irreverent occupation officer, has been reassigned to take command of the station. A adorned officer, Lovecraft is thinking about resigning her fee and attempting to make a lifestyles open air of the military. This journey of responsibility within the Antarctic darkness is to be her last.
Dr. Corky Rivers isn't any fan of the army. The station’s in basic terms different lady is aghast at Lovecraft’s language, strategies and hat selection. immediately figuring out to dislike the Commander, she slowly involves relish Lovecraft’s certain charms.
Unfortunately, time is probably not on their facet whilst the group unearths what it’s been trying to find. And, even worse, anything extra.
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Additional resources for Icehole
They called it the rocket field, out here on the Edge, but they didn’t use rockets any longer. Now they rode to space on strange tubes that whistled and sparkled behind the ship till it flicked off into some crazy quilt not-space, and was gone forever. Tarmac clicked under the heels of his boots. Bright, shining boots, kept meticulously clean by polishing, overpolishing till they reflected back the corona of the field kliegs and, more faintly, the gleam of the stars. The Minstrel kept them cleaned and polished, a clashing note matched against his generally unkempt appearance.
Under his thick buttocks the empty trough of the mattressless bunk bowed beneath his weight. He was an extremely tall man, even hunched up that way. He was a gaunt, empty-looking man. His hair fell lanky and drab and gray-brown in disarray over a low forehead. His eyes seemed to be peas, withdrawn from their pods and placed in a starkly white face. Their blankness only accented the total cipher he seemed. There was no inch of expression or recognition on his face or in the line of his body. He seemed to be a man who had given up the Search long ago.
Shock sparkled in the thought. He must be blocked off by trauma-barrier, came the reply from the telepath named Ralph. ” the first Mindee inquired softly, a hand on Gunnderson’s shoulder. The expression never changed. The head swivelled slowly and the dead eyes came to bear on the dark-suited telepath. ” His tones indicated no enthusiasm, no curiosity. The first man looked up at his partner, doubt wrinkling his eyes, pursing his lips. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, Who knows? He turned back to Gunnderson.
Icehole by Kiera Dellacroix