Nobody was on break. The five night engineers were all at their posts, feverishly scrolling systems reports. Only Chip McCullough looked up as Charlie came through door, and all he got from Chip was a glum nod. All this, in the few hours since his shift had officially ended.

Anne Costigan was here, too. She glanced up from her handheld monitor and saw him standing by the door. She held up a finger to the junior supervisor — one second — and strode over. Charlie liked this about Anne, her economy of motion, every gesture purposeful. “Christ, Charlie,” she said, “don’t you ever sleep?”

“Just on my way out.”

“Through the stacks?”

“Came for coffee, actually. But you guys are busy.”

“We had a big spike through the I/O’s an hour ago.”

“Power spike?”

“No, an activity spike. The switchboard lit up, if you know what I mean. Like somebody fed the Eye a dose of amphetamine.”

“It happens,” Charlie said. “You remember last winter—”

“This one’s a little unusual. It settled down, but we’re doing a systems check.”

“Still making data?”

“Oh, yeah, nothing bad, just a blip, but… you know.”

He understood. The Eye and all its interrelated systems hovered perpetually on the brink of chaos. Like a harnessed wild animal, what the Eye needed was not maintenance so much as grooming and reassurance. In its complexity and unpredictability, it was very nearly a living thing. Those who understood that — and Anne was one of them — had learned to pay attention to the small things.

“You want to stick around, lend a hand?”

Yes, he did, but Anne didn’t need him; he would only get underfoot. He said, “I have a dog to feed.”

“Tell Boomer hello for me.” She was clearly anxious to get back to work.