 We were being thrust up through the earth's crust, not on this occasion in an extinct volcano like Snaefells, but in a mountain of fire in full activity. From Cape Sacknessam, we had been swept northward many hundreds of leagues. Where then were we now? Under Iceland? Should we be belched up through Mount Heckler or through one of the other seven fire funnels of the island? But why did it matter? We were doomed anyway.