"I think so," Patricia said. "Measure from the axis for angle, then distance from the cap. But what's zero, and which cap?"

"This is the zero bridge, and we measure from the south cap."

"This isn't an initiation, then—you weren't telling me a story. Humans built the Stone."

"They did," Lanier said.

"Where did they go?"

Lanier smiled and waggled a finger.

"I know," Patricia said, sighing. "Wait and see for myself." She stepped down from the truck and stretched, then rubbed her eyes. "I'm impressed."

"The first time I saw Alexandria, I felt kind of at home," Lanier said. "I was raised in New York, moved to LA when I was fifteen—lived in big cities all my life, practically. But this really impressed me, even so. We could move twenty million people into just this chamber and still not be crowded."

"Is that why the Stone is important—as real estate?"

"No," Lanier said. "We don't plan on selling condos. We have fifteen archaeologists on the team, and they'd kill anyone who even suggested it. They hold briefings every few days—I'm sure you'll attend several soon. They're working around the clock, and have been since we brought them up here three years ago. They haven't let us touch anything since that time, except when one of the security team commanders or myself has overruled them. And even then, we needed damned good excuses."

Patricia nodded to the three guards, who returned the greeting cordially, one tipping the visor on his cap. A radio in the guard house beeped and crackled. The senior officer answered. Patricia couldn't catch the guttural message, but the guard replied in what sounded like Russian.

"I could have sworn they were all clean-cut American soldiers," Patricia said.

"They are. There are Russians working with Hua Ling in the southern cap bore hole."

"The marines speak Russian?"

"This one does, obviously. And three or four other languages. Cream of the crop."

"Is there anybody up here who isn't brilliant?"

"No common grunts, if that's what you mean. We can't afford them. Everyone has to do double and triple duty." He sat in the driver's seat again. "When you're ready, we'll cross the bridge and drive to the library."

"Anytime," Patricia said, resuming her seat.

Lanier advanced the tractor and the gates swung wide for them, then closed after.

They crossed the four-lane bridge, tires chattering and whanging on the asphalt. Patricia reached into her pants pocket to pull out the slate. Using its ten-key shorthand board, she typed:

Weather—or rather, the absence of it. Sky is quite clear. Perspective—really startling. Land appears flat nearby, then just above the horizon (looking north) seems to curve, the curve getting more radical up the side of the valley. The chamber overhead has lots of detail, visible through slight haze.

She played back what she had keyed in, hunting for errors. She had learned to type on a slate in high school, but that had been many years ago, and she preferred writing by hand. Paper, however, was obviously an expensive commodity on the Stone, to be used sparingly.