Milo grabbed her arm. “Europa, that’s suicide.”
“Kid, I’ve spent my whole life listening to rocks. Most of them just crack and crumble. But this one? This one sings . I want to hear the final verse.”
Europa shook her head. “No. The final valve is in the magma shaft. You’d burn. I’m the only one who knows the rock’s rhythm. I can time it.”
One evening, years later, young explorers from Atlantis found a strange object in a volcanic vent: a single, unburned cigar, perfectly dry, resting on a pedestal of obsidian. Beside it, carved into the rock in elegant, ancient Atlantean script, were the words: “She listened. And the world held.” Milo had that cigar bronzed and placed in the Hall of Records.
“Volcanic glass with crystalline bio-luminescence,” she murmured. “Impossible. Unless…”