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Dear Martha, 

Life at base camp is a hoot. The apple moon rises while the swallows are sorrowing in the orchards. Stan says hi. His noodle stew is vertiginous. Mangoes grow wild here and you can barely put a foot down without stepping on a rind or two. Still I’m somewhat blue. I miss you. What kind of life is this—taking core samples, harrowing the drifts, sifting silt for godknowswhat? Will we ever find what we are looking for? I feel like a fool. Captain Pout says we must keep our spirits up. I dream often of Tulsa, my home, where the bread bakes itself and the knives melt like poisoned soldiers. Wait on me, Mawmaw. See you at The Big Show! 

Truly Yours,

Captain Spengler

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