She understood he was referring to the Monument-Makers.

"It was," he continued, "Steinitz' comment when he first saw her. And he was right."

"Right for his age. Not necessarily for ours." She didn't exactly believe that, since the Monument-Makers seemed to have vanished. Nevertheless it was the right thing to say. She examined her coffee mug. "I'm amazed that they were able to get that kind of articulation and detail into a block of ice."

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

"I don't know. It is disquieting. Almost oppressive. I don't really know how to describe it." She swung the chair around, turning her back to the plain. "Maybe it's the desolation."

"I'll tell you what it is for me," he said. "It's her footprints. There's only one set."

Hutch didn't quite understand.

"She was alone."

The figure was idealized. It watched Saturn with unmistakable interest, and there was nobility and grace in its lines.

Hutch read something else at the juncture of beak and jaw, and in the corners of the eyes: an amalgam of arrogance and distrust laced with stoicism. Tenacity. Perhaps even fear.

"The inscription," she said. "It's probably the thing's name."

"That's the position Muncie takes. If in fact it's a work of art and nothing else, it could be the title of the work. "The Watcher. 'Outpost. Something like that."

"Or," said Hutch, "maybe the name of a goddess."

"Possibly. One of the members of the original mission suggested it might be a claim marker."

"If so," she said, "they're welcome to this rock."

"They were thinking more of the solar system." The plain lay flat and sterile. The rings were knife-edge bright. "Are you ready to take a walk?"

They followed the ramp out onto the plain. Off to one side they could see the booted tracks of the astronauts. Approximately a kilometer and a half west, her prints appeared.