“I suppose it’s not a bad time while everybody is preoccupied with the Anchorage flight and screwing around with the tourists.” He reached forward and started the engine.

They drove out of the airport and headed northeast on the only road. It was gravel. To talk they had to shout over the sound of the engine.

“It’s about eight miles to Prudhoe Bay,” Ron said, “but we’ll be turning off to the west in another mile or so. Remember, if anybody stops us, I’m just taking you to the new oilfield.”

Dick nodded. He couldn’t believe his friend was so uptight about this thing. Looking around at the flat, marshy monotonous tundra and the overcast gunmetal gray sky, he wondered if the place was getting to Ron. He guessed life was not easy on the alluvial plain of Alaska’s north slope. To lighten the mood he said: “Weather’s not bad. What’s the temperature?”

“You’re lucky,” Ron said. “There was some sun earlier, so it’s in the low fifties. This is as warm as it gets up here. Enjoy it while it lasts. It’ll probably flurry later today. It usually does. The perpetual joke is whether it’s the last snow of last winter or the first snow of next winter.”

Dick smiled and nodded but couldn’t help but think that if the people up there considered that funny, they were in sad shape.

A few minutes later Ron turned left onto a smaller, newer road, heading northwest.

“How did you happen to find this abandoned igloo?” Dick asked.

“It wasn’t an igloo,” Ron said. “It was a house made out of peat blocks reinforced with whalebone. Igloos were only made as temporary shelters, like when people went out hunting on the ice. The Inupiat Eskimos lived in peat huts.”

“I stand corrected,” Dick said. “So how’d you come across it?”

“Totally by accident,” Ron said. “We found it when we were bulldozing for this road. We broke through the entrance tunnel.”

“Is everything still in it?” Dick asked. “I worried about that flying up here. I mean, I don’t want this to be a wasted trip.”