“Why on earth would I abandon a dig?”

“The storm, sir.”

“Damn the storm.” He was turning away when Pascale took his arm, a little too roughly.

“They’re right to be worried, Dan.” She spoke quietly, for his benefit alone. “I heard about that advisory, too. We should be heading back toward Mantell.”

“And lose this?”

“We’ll come back again.”

“We might never find it, even if we bury a transponder.” He knew he was right: the position of the dig was uncertain and maps of this area were not particularly detailed; compiled quickly when the Lorean had made orbit from Yellowstone forty years earlier. Ever since the corn sat girdle had been destroyed in the mutiny, twenty years later—when half the colonists elected to steal the ship and return home—there had been no accurate way of determining position on Resurgam. And many a transponder had simply failed in a razorstorm.

“It’s still not worth risking human lives for,” Pascale said.

“It might be worth much more than that.” He snapped a finger at the students. “Faster. Use the servitor if you must. I want to see the top of that obelisk by dawn.”

Sluka, his senior research student, muttered a word under her breath.

“Something to contribute?” Sylveste asked.

Sluka stood for what must have been the first time in hours. He could see the tension in her eyes. The little spatula she had been using dropped on the ground, beside the mukluks she wore on her feet. She snatched the mask away from her face, breathing Resurgam air for a few seconds while she spoke. “We need to talk.”

“About what, Sluka?”

Sluka gulped down air from the mask before speaking again. “You’re pushing your luck, Dr Sylveste.”

“You’ve just pushed yours over the precipice.”

She seemed not to have heard him. “We care about your work, you know. We share your beliefs. That’s why we’re here, breaking our backs for you. But you shouldn’t take us for granted.” Her eyes flashed white arcs, glancing towards Pascale. “Right now you need all the allies you can find, Dr Sylveste.”