The storm was coming. But Frank had a key, a half-tank of jet fuel, and a very bad idea.
He fished it out with a pair of long forceps. A key. Not a modern key—a heavy, brass skeleton key, crusted with decades of filth. On its bow were etched two words: “Mawson’s Cache.” urinal drain unblocker
Frank was the “urinal drain unblocker.” That wasn’t his official title. His badge said “Sanitation Systems Engineer,” but everyone knew. He was the man who stuck his arm where no one else would. The storm was coming
In the grim fluorescent glow of the men’s restroom at McMurdo Station, Antarctica, Frank understood the true meaning of isolation. a half-tank of jet fuel