“It seemed to me it was hotter this summer than last,” Craig said. “Maybe only my imagination⁠—but it won’t be imagination in a few years if the tilt toward the sun continues.”

“The time would come when we’d have to leave here,” Lake said. “We’d have to go north up the plateau each spring. There’s no timber there⁠—nothing but grass and wind and thin air. We’d have to migrate south each fall.”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… migrate.” Anders’s face was old and weary in the harsh reflected light of the blue sun and his hair had turned almost white in the past year. “Only the young ones could ever adapt enough to go up the plateau to its north portion. The rest of us⁠ ⁠… but we haven’t many years, anyway. Ragnarok is for the young⁠—and if they have to migrate back and forth like animals just to stay alive they will never have time to accomplish anything or be more than stone age nomads.”

“I wish we could know how long the Big Summer will be that we’re going into,” Craig said. “And how long and cold the Big Winter, when Ragnarok tilts away from the sun. It wouldn’t change anything⁠—but I’d like to know.”