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gravity-modifying sled winding its way up the steep road. His guests were here and on time.
    Ethan walked over to greet them. A study in contrasts, he thought. Eliza Majweske, the current president of the Sentinel Council, was a well-built woman in her midfifties, with dark brown skin, tight-coiled hair of black and silver, an easy manner, and a broad, comforting smile. On her blouse, Ethan could see the sentinel emblem of a stone tower rising up against a blue sky surrounded by a gold circle.
    Professor Andreas Hmong, Senior Elder of the Custodians of the Faith, a man in his sixties, was a slighter figure. He was balding, with a long beard and a face that showed his Asiatic genes, with alert green eyes that spoke of intelligence.
    â€œFriends, welcome!” Ethan said, and hugged them both in turn.
    Having established that they had eaten en route from Jerusalem, Ethan gestured to where, at the end of a wooden patio, a table stood just below the outstretched branches of a large cedar.
    â€œDrinks are in the kitchen. Help yourself and then let’s gather outside.”
    A few minutes later, amid the recounting of the doings of families and children, they pulled up chairs around the table under the shade of the great tree.
    â€œHave you been here long, Eeth?” Eliza asked in her deep, melodic voice. Ethan noticed how her brown eyes somehow conveyed not just a relaxed gentleness but also shrewdness.
    â€œI caught the rail to Sidon three days ago and got Forestry to bring me up. I came up with just a bag and box of food. I’ve been alone with my thoughts and my prayers. Have you been here before?”
    â€œYears ago.”
    â€œYou, Andreas?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. I count it a grave omission. I love the air and the fresh tang of the trees.” Andreas looked slowly around as if examining everything. “And all the history! Solomon was here and the old authors spoke highly of these forests and their wildlife. There are some fine poems.” He paused, the intense look on his face suggesting he was mentally repeating some stanza. When he spoke again, his voice had acquired a dreamy quality. “And Assembly poets have made much of their restoration to something of their former glory.”
    He gazed around again, his green eyes softening. “I fancy more might be written. Of the diffuse shade through such trees, the light glinting off the needles, the scent of the resin, the wind whispering in the ancient boughs . . .” Suddenly embarrassed, he stopped.
    Ethan smiled and caught the laughter in Eliza’s eyes.
    Andreas made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “My apologies,” he said, with a self-conscious smile. “This is hardly relevant, is it? After all, this meeting is to do with the crisis.”
    Eliza laughed gently. “It is a great work of grace that we can, even now, still think of poetry. I’m glad that our senior elder is still a literary man.”
    Ethan remembered that one reason why Andreas had been chosen to lead the custodians was because he was a poet and the new hymnbook had been in preparation. He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for a world where the biggest theological issue had been over song lyrics.
    â€œAnd I’m glad we can laugh,” Ethan added. “And when this crisis is over, you must come up and stay here. It’s tiny, but an excellent place for thought and prayer—and poetry.” There were smiles all around. “But to business. Friends, it is good of you to come at such short notice. Tomorrow’s meeting of the entire Congregation of Stewards has raised three issues in my mind on which I need help. And you are not only the leaders of the custodians and the sentinels but also trusted friends.”
    â€œIt’s our privilege, friend Ethan,” muttered Andreas.
    â€œYes,” Eliza agreed with a quiet emphasis.
    â€œThank you. As you know, tomorrow I will put forward to all the stewards the