The Moon has its American flag stiffened by metal into a permanent salute; for the Antarctic, protected by conquest by international treaty, colonialists required a more subtle form of cat piss. The embryonic Antarctican culture, with its smattering of slang words and dazed psychology, had become Murdoch's brave new shore.

The official Antarctic culture revolved around beer and beards. But ever since his accident at the fuel dump and his slide down the crevace Julian had become to suspect something lurking out there in the vast, whiter than liquid paper white, something beyond the buying power of even Rupert Murdoch.

He saw them mainly in his dreams. The night after Flora arrived, for example, he dreamt he was surveying the interior when he stumbled upon a verdant oasis tended by women with uncommonly long necks and men wearing penis sheaves. A few nights later he had a dream which started in a cave lit by seal oil and decorated with penquin feathers.

He was sitting in a circle of about 20 people of indeterminate hue; he figured they were waiting for someone. The first thing he noticed about his peers was their unusually androgynous look: the men were an almost feminine lot with their long limbs and Nubian eyes; the women were just as feminine but maintained somewhat of a boyish look, like they'd just trimmed their hair for Eton. It's a parliament of elves he thought -- snoe elves! Someone passed him a strange-smelling goblet; he refused. Someone else down the line, two people - he couldn't tell their gender - were having sex.

The boy-man next to him tried to pass him the goblet again; again he refused. This seemed to upset everyone. <<I don't drink>> Julian said -- <<I'm not a hooligan.>> He heard avian cries behind him and turned around to see a woman slice open a penquin with a sharpened stone, its still-beating heart squirting globules of blood into a rich goblet.

<<Jesus Christ>> Julian said.

<<Yes, it's Him>> the woman said.