The flat blade made short scores in the surface resembling hash marks on a prison wall, counting the interminable age it would take to realize freedom, one blow at a time. Noah’s knuckles ached and his joints swelled as he thrust the flat spade edge down in front of his feet again and again, hoping the next hit would create the crack showing him he’d reached the point at which the ice would give. But all he did was chip away a half inch at a time at the thick, solid layer. The tool was built to break and scrape ice accumulated on the deck of the ship. It was designed to combat an inch or two of the stuff, not thickly packed floes of sea ice. Still, he was better off than Henry with a blunt sledgehammer, beating against the surface with no effect. Noah could feel the vibrations of the impacts under foot. He thought the sensation should trouble him, make him fear he was standing too near a crack about to open and dump him through. But the surface on which he stood felt as sturdy as downtown asphalt.
