Jasper knew very well what hole Markin meant; the end of a gun, a sight he was anxious to avoid.

The Monument occupied a rise at the mouth of the canyon through which their supply line ran. They had to decide; occupy it? Blow it up? And the Directorate, as impatient and remote as a bureaucracy could well be, had given them little time.

Back in the ruin, like a hunter watching his dog, Jasper watched Harlow return guiltily to the spiral carving. Harlow narrowed his eyes; something was different. “What?” Jenkins hissed. “What does the unmik see?” He was the political officer, custodian of their loyalty, and inclined to take custody of all sorts of things. Thus, he had the radio.

A door-sized depression, obvious to everyone, had appeared in the glazed tile wall. What Jenkins wanted to know was the others’ reaction to it. “He sees a depression,” Jasper reported flatly, as Harlow touched it.

It fell into the dark space beyond with a clatter of terra cotta and a puff of ancient dust.