Strontium-90
“Even the gods at last must fall.
So when each man shall surely die, What but his fame shall reach the sky?
-- From: The Lament of Ulfer Aufling GREENLAND A.D. 1126: Henri fled across the ice from baying Irish wolfhounds. He’d gotten greedy again at dice and won too much. He clutched a long, spiral-fluted horn. Blood dripped from its ivory tip, the droplets freezing into tiny red pearls. His painful breath—each frigid gulp felt as if raspy sharkskin rubbed his throat.
A monstrous glacier loomed before him, a mountainous heap of artic frost. The reflected sun-glare was blinding. Henri squinted as he ran. Then the ice-shelf shifted, it rumbled beneath him. Henri lost his footing and plowed face-first into the crystalline snow. At a great splintering sound, his head whipped up. He spat hoarfrost from numbed lips and in horror witnessed jagged cracks ripping across the ice. The mountain before him, the glacier trembled like an old man.
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