Petals and fetters? Peters and meters. Fetters on the peter meter. The peter
meter winding around rapidly. You can see that black spot on the dial. Round
and round. The hibiscus clown. The clown flowers. They really flow, the
flowers. They really grow the growers. The really grow, the growlers. Those
little bergs that go growling down the sound. Wind them up and let them go,
mother berg. With their little crystal propellors. The icebergs and their
crystal screws. Flank speed, Mr. Snow! We've Titanics to injure!

The ice forces. Those Ice Forces of the North.

Lotta defections, the shrinking cap. The shrinking camp of ice forces. The
earth's shrinking thinking cap. The earth is getting dumber all the time.

The ice flowers and the ice trawlers. Growling, the trawlers trawling
knowledge, trawling drawling knowledge from the frozen seas. they haul it
dripping on the deck and swing it dripping on the dock and it goes right into
a refrigerated warehouse, where intelligence agents interrogate and torture
it for hours. Here's where heat lamps really make a difference. They really
burn the agents of the ice forces. They weep and shrink and before long
they're just a memory, and ice water in the veins of the interrogation
agents. There's no lack of refreshment when a growler's on the stool.

The Snow Forces. Ford the crystal seas of the pack, the polynyas and the
leads. Ice breakers interrogate them, try and break them. chip off little
bits and crun them in the crystal scrutinizer. Search for the tiny nanoterias
of information, revealing the future plans of the earth -- will this warming
trend continue? Will there be another Little Ice Age? Will there be a
disaster-movie type turnaround?

The Ice Forces with their trim, snap white coats. In their gleaming white
uniforms, their polished white uniforms with the blue epaulets, epaulets the
color of a deep crevasse in the sun. Sun turns from yellow to blue when it
enters our atmosphere. Like the blue flame on a welding torch. The sun
interrogates the Ice Force prisoners, grills them on the welding chair.
Grills them on the whelping stool.

Mother bergs, whelping, in the long spring nights, sending their calves out
to save the world. The calves do their best to drill their formations and
flank the enemy titanics. But slow intelligent narwhals, enemy agents, often
track them underwater, rise up and disembowl their undercarriages with their
whorled snouts. Particularly hateful, to have someone like that, someone you
considered a friend, working for the enemy down below. Now and then a traitor
narwhal is surrounded by beluga and taken down, down down to the devil's
graveyard, down to the whale graveyard, rendered into oil for blimps and fat
for the enemeskmos. The enemy esquimaux, skiing the narwhal tarpits. The
narwhals' armpits. Smell a little hairy, smell worse than the esquimaux on
their diet of whale blubber -- ever smelled a whale blubber fart in an
enclosed igloo? In a hermetically sealed 'gloo? Rank and rancid, I tell you

The enemy igloos then rise up and digest the esquimaux. Then toddle on
spindly legs down to the lead and climb back in the water -- it's an iceberg
in disguise! Digesting in disguise! It's the calf of 146, Mother Berg
Idaho-Charlie-Vector, on a secret mission to the shores of the Beaufort Sea.
It neatly explains the many esquimaux disappearances in these parts. Something
that befuddled the native shamen no end, since ice, anything made of ice, the
bergs on two legs, four and six, and inching across the divide disguised as
glaciers, leave little or no psychic vibrations to betray them.

Ice, after all, though it has a memory, a rudimentary memory, doesn't radiate
the way we do. We, suffused with sun and sparkles, photochemical ideas, the
krebs cycle, ATP and all our little chemicals, we radiate nanometers to the
n-th frequencies, all those nth frequencies wherein are found the psychic
radiation. But ice, blue ice, butt ice, the butts of the glaciers -- Ice does
not radiate psychically, and that's a real problem when you're trying to
fight a global warming war!

This is why they must resort to interrogation, interrogate the glaciers, this
kind of brute force and torture and so forth, in order to get the information
they most vitally need. The information must be teased out scientifically
rather than psychically, which is very difficult on them. Scientific
interrogation is an extremely unreliable process, taking years, sometimes
decades, whereas psychic interrogation, quicker, is even less reliable.
Scientific interrogation must be juried, reproduced, falsified...this is how
you create the actual scientific reality by which the next phases of the war
is fought!

Scamming, the exkimo war. The exquimaux. The ex-Esquimaux -- it goes the
other way. Sometimes the esquimaux turn quisling and defect to the side of
the bergs. They don't last very long, for it's quite cold in Bergland. And
yet the esquimaux have evolved to tolerate cold much more readily than
ordinary human beings, with the possible exception of the Yaghan. And if
there were any of them left, you can bet they'd be preoccupied in stealing
the crystal propellers and fashioning ice knives and hoarding them in holes
chipped from the permafrost.

They with their lenses of permafrosted earth, training those lenses on the
lasers of the sun -- the information that passes through a permafrost lens is
a funny thing, but it does effectively filter out the confusion caused by the
radiation of human beings. Which fact the esquimaux quislings use to their
advantage. In suits of permafrost, they sneak down, creep down, an inch a
day, the glaciers easily outrunning them, to the sea where they discard the
coats and seek out the nearest Ice Base. It's tough to find an ice base, even
if you have an esquimaux shaman with you, shaman radar being subject to the
limitations mentioned above.

Several shamen linked together, rotating in place, all day and's
not very efficient. They tend to begin detecting phantom foodstuffs that are
simply not there, the hungrier they get. It's a very hungry and lonely job,
shamanradar, shaman radar receivers...and thankless, nonetheless. To be sure,
it's a thankless job.

So the traitorious esquimaux slip easily past the shamanradar and find the
Ice Base and sign up to assist the ice in any way that they can. Mostly
they're assigned to chop wood and carry water, neither of which is for the
Ice forces in support, but mainly for the traitors themselves -- they're
assigned to their own upkeep. There's little to do. now and then they serve
as envoys to the warm world to parley some bit of intelligence, hostage
transfer...and, natch, sabotag e.