searched the entire railing, finding two more grooves,
each at different angles.
Retrieving
three pencils from the desk, he laid them on the grooves. They all
pointed to the tripod telescope in the center of the balcony, its
position fixed by marks on the floor near each leg. He swiveled the
instrument to the bearing indicated by the first cut. The end of the
long ridge to the west of Carthage leapt into view, on the other side
of the deep ravine that separated the colony from the reviled camps.
He increased the magnification and a dead oak at the end of the ridge
filled the lens. Hawks sometimes perched there, and a bird roosted
there now. The tree had become part of the colony's folklore.
Vultures were said to rest there after dining on the dead of the
camps.
He
reduced the magnification and turned the scope to the second mark.
Town buildings leapt into view. A corner of Government House. A
tavern. The colony's two theaters. Then, increasing the magnification
again, the most distant of the structures leapt into view. It was the
fish processing plant—more specifically, its roof.
The
third mark aimed directly at the steep slope of the ridge that formed
the settlement's eastern boundary. Nothing was there except large
trees, misshapen from the prevailing northwest wind, and a clearing
at the top where townspeople liked to take picnics. He paused for a
moment, remembering that Jonah kept another, stronger lens tube
somewhere, one they sometimes used to study the moon. He turned to
survey the wreckage inside, spied a wooden box that had been knocked
from a shelf, half its contents spilled onto the floor. Pen nibs,
several old chandelier crystals, a paper knife. Remaining inside was
the little tattered cardboard carton that held the lens.
A
moment later he had inserted the lens and turned the scope back to
the first site. The dead tree could be seen in great detail now, the
bird at its top resolving itself into an eagle. Below it, on the
lowest limb, was a flash of color he'd not seen before. Three long
strips of bright cloth fluttered in the wind, a blue one flanked by
two red ones. It was a signal.
A
rustle caused him to spin around. A young woman was collecting
charred papers from the desk.
"No
cleaning in here!" Hadrian snapped.
"I
was told to help," the woman stammered, glancing nervously at
Hadrian before gazing at the floor.
"Not
in here, not until I say so."
"You
misunderstand, sir. I mean the governor ordered me to help you."
Hadrian
set the papers back on the desk and studied her as she brushed aside
a strand of long russet hair. She was a first-generation colonist, in
her mid-twenties, and would have been pretty had her face not been so
heavily mottled. One in five children born in Carthage had
pigmentation problems. She lifted the book of poems from the desk.
As
Hadrian reached out to pull the book away from her, he noticed the
brown tunic under her quilted jacket. "What exactly is your job,
officer?"
She
stepped back from the desk. "Sergeant. Sergeant Jori Waller,"
she said nervously. "I usually compile evidence for the
tribunals hearing cases, show it to the judges."
Hadrian
frowned. "You mean you're an investigator?" Carthage was
still a small community in many ways but—probably because it
was so small—many of its citizens kept aspects of their lives
secret. So many participated in the black market that its shadow
touched every street. So many had two faces that old timers joked the
population wasn't nine thousand, it was eighteen. The job of the
police, Jonah once had quipped, wasn't to penetrate the secrets but
to make sure people kept their faces straight. Hadrian had never
heard of a real investigator in the colony.
Sergeant
Waller shrugged. "Mostly I just compile the facts in police
reports. Our crimes are always straightforward, usually settled by
the testimony of the arresting officer. A clerical job, really."
"But
you're a sergeant."
She
seemed embarrassed by the comment. "I'm in charge
each at different angles.
Retrieving
three pencils from the desk, he laid them on the grooves. They all
pointed to the tripod telescope in the center of the balcony, its
position fixed by marks on the floor near each leg. He swiveled the
instrument to the bearing indicated by the first cut. The end of the
long ridge to the west of Carthage leapt into view, on the other side
of the deep ravine that separated the colony from the reviled camps.
He increased the magnification and a dead oak at the end of the ridge
filled the lens. Hawks sometimes perched there, and a bird roosted
there now. The tree had become part of the colony's folklore.
Vultures were said to rest there after dining on the dead of the
camps.
He
reduced the magnification and turned the scope to the second mark.
Town buildings leapt into view. A corner of Government House. A
tavern. The colony's two theaters. Then, increasing the magnification
again, the most distant of the structures leapt into view. It was the
fish processing plant—more specifically, its roof.
The
third mark aimed directly at the steep slope of the ridge that formed
the settlement's eastern boundary. Nothing was there except large
trees, misshapen from the prevailing northwest wind, and a clearing
at the top where townspeople liked to take picnics. He paused for a
moment, remembering that Jonah kept another, stronger lens tube
somewhere, one they sometimes used to study the moon. He turned to
survey the wreckage inside, spied a wooden box that had been knocked
from a shelf, half its contents spilled onto the floor. Pen nibs,
several old chandelier crystals, a paper knife. Remaining inside was
the little tattered cardboard carton that held the lens.
A
moment later he had inserted the lens and turned the scope back to
the first site. The dead tree could be seen in great detail now, the
bird at its top resolving itself into an eagle. Below it, on the
lowest limb, was a flash of color he'd not seen before. Three long
strips of bright cloth fluttered in the wind, a blue one flanked by
two red ones. It was a signal.
A
rustle caused him to spin around. A young woman was collecting
charred papers from the desk.
"No
cleaning in here!" Hadrian snapped.
"I
was told to help," the woman stammered, glancing nervously at
Hadrian before gazing at the floor.
"Not
in here, not until I say so."
"You
misunderstand, sir. I mean the governor ordered me to help you."
Hadrian
set the papers back on the desk and studied her as she brushed aside
a strand of long russet hair. She was a first-generation colonist, in
her mid-twenties, and would have been pretty had her face not been so
heavily mottled. One in five children born in Carthage had
pigmentation problems. She lifted the book of poems from the desk.
As
Hadrian reached out to pull the book away from her, he noticed the
brown tunic under her quilted jacket. "What exactly is your job,
officer?"
She
stepped back from the desk. "Sergeant. Sergeant Jori Waller,"
she said nervously. "I usually compile evidence for the
tribunals hearing cases, show it to the judges."
Hadrian
frowned. "You mean you're an investigator?" Carthage was
still a small community in many ways but—probably because it
was so small—many of its citizens kept aspects of their lives
secret. So many participated in the black market that its shadow
touched every street. So many had two faces that old timers joked the
population wasn't nine thousand, it was eighteen. The job of the
police, Jonah once had quipped, wasn't to penetrate the secrets but
to make sure people kept their faces straight. Hadrian had never
heard of a real investigator in the colony.
Sergeant
Waller shrugged. "Mostly I just compile the facts in police
reports. Our crimes are always straightforward, usually settled by
the testimony of the arresting officer. A clerical job, really."
"But
you're a sergeant."
She
seemed embarrassed by the comment. "I'm in charge
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