We believe the ice sheet was not around all the time. It was only

Host: The research station sat perched on the edge of the world, a lonely outpost of steel and glass against the endless white of the Antarctic plateau. The wind howled like an ancient spirit, sculpting the snow into shapes that resembled memory — smooth, cold, fleeting. Inside, the soft hum of the heaters was the only sign of warmth, and the glow from the monitors painted the walls in hues of blue and pale green, like light trapped beneath ice.

Host: Jack leaned over a table scattered with satellite images, his fingers tracing contour lines that looked more like scars than geography. Across from him, Jeeny held a mug of coffee, the steam rising against her cheeks flushed from cold. Between them lay the fragile subject of all human fear and fascination — time itself, measured in layers of ice.

Jeeny: (softly) “Kenneth R. Miller once said, ‘We believe the ice sheet was not around all the time. It was only around during cool snaps of the climate.’”
(She glances toward the frosted window.) “Imagine that, Jack. Even the ice — this thing we think eternal — was temporary once.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Everything’s temporary once. That’s the problem.”

Jeeny: “Or the miracle.”

Host: A faint groan echoed through the station — the sound of ice shifting, the earth turning over in its long, slow sleep. Outside, the horizon shimmered, endless and unbroken, like the memory of a time before humankind.

Jack: “Miller’s right. The ice comes and goes. Climate’s never been static. People panic about melting, but the planet’s been melting and freezing for millions of years. It’s not the first thaw.”

Jeeny: (setting down her cup) “No. But it’s the first one caused by us.”

Jack: (glancing up, his grey eyes sharp) “You think the ice cares who did it?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we should.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — light, but heavy with truth — the kind of sentence that left the room a little quieter afterward.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who think the earth’s keeping moral score.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about morality. It’s about memory. Every layer of ice is a page in the planet’s diary, Jack. And right now, we’re scribbling in fire.”

Host: The heaters hummed louder, as if in agreement. On the monitors, the satellite feed flickered, displaying a sea of shifting white and blue, the patterns almost breathing.

Jack: “So you think this melt — this whole warming thing — is our fault?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about fault. It’s about responsibility. The difference between natural change and negligence is intention. The ice didn’t melt itself faster — we heated it.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You sound certain. But Miller’s theory — the ice came and went — that means even before us, the climate shifted. Catastrophically. Maybe this is just part of the cycle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But cycles can be accelerated. Even nature chokes when you push it too fast.”

Host: The lights flickered, and for a brief moment, the station dimmed into shadow. The wind outside rose in pitch, pressing against the windows like the breath of some invisible giant.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it means, Jack — that the ice isn’t eternal? It’s like the planet itself reminding us that nothing, not even cold, lasts forever.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But it’s just thermodynamics.”

Jeeny: “Thermodynamics is poetry if you listen right.”

Host: She smiled faintly, and for a second, her face seemed carved in light — soft but fierce. Jack looked at her, half-annoyed, half-intrigued.

Jack: “You really believe the earth has a voice.”

Jeeny: “Not a voice. A pulse. You just have to be quiet enough to feel it.”

Host: Silence. Only the hum of electricity, the faint hiss of the wind, and the sound of snow sliding gently down the outer glass.

Jack: “Miller said the ice was only around during cool snaps — that means warmth has always followed. Maybe it’s natural for things to reset. Maybe this melt is just part of that rhythm.”

Jeeny: “If it’s rhythm, it’s one we’ve sped up beyond tempo. The last natural cool snap took tens of thousands of years. We’ve changed the score in less than two centuries.”

Jack: “So what do you want to do? Stop progress? Shut down cities? We’re not gods, Jeeny. We can’t freeze the world to keep it from dying.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “We’re not gods. But we’re gardeners. And the gardener doesn’t stop the seasons — they just learn how not to poison the soil.”

Host: A pause. The wind howled again, this time longer, deeper — a sound both mournful and alive. The light flickered once more.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever fix it?”

Jeeny: (after a moment) “No. But maybe we’ll learn how to live with it.”

Host: He turned toward the window, where the world beyond seemed suspended between two eternities — one frozen, one melting.

Jack: “You know what I think? The ice remembers us. Every chemical trace, every trapped bubble of carbon, every fingerprint we left in the air — it’s all there. Maybe that’s what scares me.”

Jeeny: “That it remembers?”

Jack: “That it won’t forget.”

Host: The room fell still. Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and the faint outline of the aurora began to shimmer above the horizon — a curtain of green and violet, soft as breath, ancient as prayer.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it. The earth remembers — not to punish us, but to teach us. It shows us that change doesn’t mean death. It means movement. It means renewal.”

Jack: “You always manage to turn destruction into redemption.”

Jeeny: “Because every ending deserves at least one chance to change its tone.”

Host: The aurora brightened, washing the room in colors that felt alive — hues that bent time, bending science into wonder.

Jack: “You know… maybe Miller wasn’t just talking about ice. Maybe he was talking about humanity too. Maybe we’re only around during our own ‘cool snaps’ — when the world calms just enough for us to think, to remember, to care.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe now’s our chance to freeze — just long enough to think before we melt everything we love.”

Host: The heater clicked off. The silence that followed was total, vast, fragile. For a moment, the world itself seemed to listen.

Host: Outside, the ice stretched endlessly — an ocean of time caught between breath and thaw.

Host: And inside that small, flickering station, two voices spoke for all of humankind — one pragmatic, one hopeful — both trying to read the planet’s diary before the ink dissolved.

Host: Because if Kenneth Miller was right —
and the ice really does come and go —
then maybe the question isn’t whether it returns,
but whether we are wise enough to stay.