Outside, a layer of sunset-stained dust obscured the sweep of level plain. A rock-dozer rumbled up, ground to a halt by Reynolds. A man jumped down.

“I got the boys moving equipment out,” he panted. “The thing’s cutting a trail straight as a rule for the highway!” He pointed to a raised roadbed a quarter mile away.

“How fast is it moving?”

“She’s done a hundred yards; it hasn’t been ten minutes yet!”

“If it keeps up another twenty minutes, it’ll be into the Intermix!”

“Scratch a few million cees and six months’ work then, Pete!”

“And Southside Mall’s a couple miles farther.”

“Hell, it’ll damp out before then!”

“Maybe. Grab a field car, Dan.”

“Pete!” Mayfield came up at a trot. “This thing’s building! The centroid’s moving on a heading of oh-two-two—”

“How far subsurface?”

“It’s rising; started at two-twenty yards, and it’s up to one-eighty!”

“What the hell have we stirred up?” Reynolds stared at Mayfield as the field car skidded to a stop beside them.

“Stay with it, Jim. Give me anything new. We’re taking a closer look.” He climbed into the rugged vehicle.

“Take a blast truck—”

“No time!” He waved and the car gunned away into the pall of dust.

3

The rock car pulled to a stop at the crest of the three-level Intermix on a lay-by designed to permit tourists to enjoy the view of the site of the proposed port, a hundred feet below. Reynolds studied the progress of the quake through field glasses. From this vantage point, the path of the phenomenon was a clearly defined trail of tilted and broken rock, some of the slabs twenty feet across. As he watched, the fissure lengthened.

“It looks like a mole’s trail.” Reynolds handed the glasses to his companion, thumbed the send key on the car radio.

“Jim, get Eaton and tell him to divert all traffic from the Circular south of Zone Nine. Cars are already clogging the right-of-way. The dust is visible from a mile away, and when the word gets out there’s something going on, we’ll be swamped.”

“I’ll tell him, but he won’t like it!”

“This isn’t politics! This thing will be into the outer pad area in another twenty minutes!”

“It won’t last—”

“How deep does it read now?”

“One-five!” There was a moment’s silence. “Pete, if it stays on course, it’ll surface at about where you’re parked!”

“Uh-huh. It looks like you can scratch one Intermix. Better tell Eaton to get a story ready for the press.”

“Pete, talking about news hounds—” Dan said beside him. Reynolds switched off, turned to see a man in a gay-colored driving outfit coming across from a battered Monojag sportster which had pulled up behind the rock car. A big camera case was slung across his shoulder.

“Say, what’s going on down there?” he called.