Secant

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.