"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 open, and a tiny old man blinked out. "Mr. Chauncey Devlin?" "Senator Fowler!" The little old man beamed. "Come in, come in--my dear fellow, if I'd realized it was you, I'd never have dreamed of keeping you so long--" He smiled, obviously distressed. "Retreat has its disadvantages, too, you see. Nothing is perfect but life, as they say. When _you've_ lived for a hundred and ninety years, you'll be glad to get away from people, and to be able to keep them out, from time to time." In better light Dan stared openly at the man. A hundred and ninety years. It was incredible. He told the man so.