By Kim Stanley Robinson
Kim Stanley Robinson - Antarctica
From the award-winning writer of the Mars Trilogy comes an exhilarating new novel....
Kim Stanley Robinson, writer of the Hugo and Nebula award-winning Mars trilogy, is among the most unique and visionary writers of fiction at the present time. Now, in his newest novel, he's taking us to a harsh, alien panorama lined through a sheet of ice miles deep. this can be no far away planet--it is the final natural wasteland on earth.
A stark and inhospitable position, its panorama poses a problem to survival; but its unusual, silent attractiveness has lengthy interested scientists and adventurers. Now Antarctica faces an doubtful destiny. The foreign treaty that protects the continent is set to dissolve, clearing the best way for Antarctica's assets and eerie attractiveness to be plundered. As politicians and firms circulation to figure out its destiny from part an international away, radical environmentalists perform a covert crusade of sabotage to reclaim the land. The winner of this severe conflict will verify the longer term for this final nice wilderness....
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Additional info for Antarctica
Hagan continued to ignore the fellow. "Maybe you can see, northman, how matters stand with me. It is my part to serve in this world for a time yet. " He turned to give his men a narrow-eyed look of appraisal. "As for now, I have some good lads here," he proclaimed modestly. "I can see that," said Hal, honestly enough. Looking at the crew the bent man had assembled, he thought that if he himself were going in for banditry he could probably not expect to do much better. Somehow Hal got the impression that they were all fiercely dedicated to serving their master.
Baldur's introduction of his traveling companion was brief and to the point: "This is Hal. We met on the road, and he has been of some help to me. " Moments later food and drink were being pressed into Hal's hands, and he was led into the house and offered a place to sit. The names of a dozen of Baldur's relatives were thrust upon him, He thought he might remember one or two, those of the younger and better-looking women. On entering the house he put aside his helmet, and as a sign of peace, his hickory-handled axe, as soon as he could find a proper place to stand it against the wall, where it was not hidden but out of the way.
It felt like a tiny animal in there, but he knew that it was not alive—unless sheer magic counted as a kind of life. Opening the pouch, he pulled out a small object—which to a casual inspection gave no sign of being anything but a scrap of dirty cloth. But the bit of fabric behaved in an extraordinary way, glowing and brightening (though without fierce heat or flame) in the man's hand even as he held it out and moved it about. When the strange fabric tugged most strongly at his fingers, Hal reached straight down into a tuft of long wild grass at his feet.