This icebound landscape has remained undisturbed for centuries. Endless freezing winds constitute an impenetrable barrier for pegasi, and the miles of arctic desert keep groundbound explorers away. Nopony had yet reached the North Pole—until today. 

From the west, a dog-pulled sleigh is approaching, preceded by sounds of whipcracks and shouts. From the east, a smoking metal contraption puffs its way through the snow. 

[i](Something is following the sleigh. Something is trailing the steam-car.)[/i]

The moustachioed pony riding the sleigh spots the smoke from the competitors' vehicle. His eyes narrow, and he spurs the dogs on. 

Inside the steam-car, the driver turns to his partner: "Hurry up with that shoveling, Highball! Use the entire reserve of coal if you need to! I see a sleigh—it's that old fool Snowdrift!"

"I'm already doing all I can, Gearbox!" Highball responds, but obediently hurries up the pace. However, a moment later, it becomes clear that further effort on his part won't be needed. 

The Pole is located in the center of a pillar of ice, twenty feet across,  completely surrounded by a ring-shaped crevasse. There is only one connection between the outside world and the pillar: a natural ice bridge, clearly not sturdy enough to support the weight of the steam-car. The passengers reluctantly leave their vehicle. 

Snowdrift also stops. He casts a few dubious looks between the bridges and his sleigh, burdened as it is with packs and boxes. Then he shakes his head, leaps off and races towards the bridge. 

He arrives at the same time as Gearbox and Highball. 

The three ponies stop in their tracks, each glaring at the competition. 

[i](Something is whispering into each explorer's ear... the ponies themselves unaware of it.)[/i]

Snowdrift speaks first. "Gentlemen, I will say this once: step aside, and let the first pony at the North Pole claim his title. I'd hate to mention in my memoirs how I was delayed by a pair of glory-seeking upstarts."

"You must have snow for brains from all these snowstorms," Gearbox replies. "The North Pole belongs to us!" Highball nods in assent. 

Snowdrift snorts. "You two! Ha! The North Pole should be claimed by a real stallion, not a pair of scrawny tinkerers who shield from the cold inside some infernal machine! If you think I will let you and your hideous smoking monster appear in history books, you've got another think coming."

"Luddite! Afraid of progress!" Gearbox says. "I'm warning you. Don't make another move."

"Stop me, pencil-pusher!"—and with these words, Snowdrift breaks into a gallop towards the bridge. Gearbox lets out a yell of fury and leaps forward. But he is much less fit and much slower. 

Snowdrift, already at the bridge, lets out a cry of triumph—but it quickly turns into a yell of panic as his hoof slips upon a rock, and he tumbles off the cliff edge. 

But luck is with him. Instead of tumbling into the depths of the gaping crevasse, he lands upon a narrow strip of rock protruding from the rock wall. There is enough room to stand, but it's remarkably slippery, and he dares not try to leap up on his own. "Help!"

Gearbox and Highball approach the edge. Gearbox, hesitating, looks towards the Pole; towards the helpless Snowdrift; then his eyes take on a decisive, steely gaze. 

"Sorry, I have a Pole to claim. Highball, you help him up," Gearbox says and steps onto the bridge. 

"Wait." Highball's voice takes on a troubling shade. "What do you mean, [i]you[/i] have a Pole to claim? Don't you mean [i]us?[/i]"

"I was the one who designed our steam-car. We'd never have made it here without me," Gearbox responds. "I do say I deserve the honor."

"But I made the machine run! If anything, it was [i]me[/i] who brought us here! All you did was sit in a chair and command me," Highball snarls. "I say I deserve it more!" 

"Get back!"

"No, you get off that bridge!" Highball leaps savagely upon his partner. Soon both stallions are tangled in a snarling, biting, kicking heap—rolling ever closer to the cliff's edge. 

[i](The wind almost sounds like excited, diabolical neighing.)[/i]

"What are you cretins doing?!" Snowdrift calls out from below. "What?! No—"

These are his last words as the two ponies tumble over the precipice, knocking him off the rocky shelf. 

A threefold horrified yell echoes all the way down the crevasse—capped off by a chilling crash. 

[i](The windigoes shall feast tonight, for the first time in centuries.)[/i]