"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Ray says resignedly. He shivers, peering around him at the carved ceiling and the periodic albino waddler. None of the penguins notice any of the men, or Mumble for that matter. They pass through the blackness and on into some unimaginable location. The black tunnel yawns indefinitely off at a steep, descending grade, its aperture adorned with grotesquely chiseled jambs and lintel. So, naturally, that's the place that the three have got to go...

At least it's warm? Warmer, anyway, for all that there are penguin tracks. Dyer and Danforth go so far as to unbutton their heavier garments in the process of making the descent. Several times along the way side corridors are remarked upon, smaller and with a distinct smell that Ray doesn't like at all. About a quarter of a mile down (Ray is carrying Mumble by now), they come across a heap of furs and fabrics. "Lake's camp's stuff," says Dyer grimly. "Best we not look too closely."

Ray nods, but his attention is mostly on the surroundings, and he listens and sniffs for something he doesn't know how to identify.