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unyielding.
    “What was Magnusson working on?” Li asked, forever direct.
    “That’s classified, sir. I’m sorry.”
    Tara’s eyes roved over the remnants of the machine. “What exactly do machines like this do?” That was a broad enough question that DiRosa should be able to answer.
    “It’s a particle accelerator. An atom smasher, colloquially. The idea is to force an atomic particle, like an electron, to collide with the nuclei of other atoms at nearly the speed of light.”
    “Is this a typical device for this purpose?”
    “No. Most accelerators are linear or circular, which require substantial real estate to accelerate the particles. This variety is. . . was. . . an experimental type, a spiral accelerator based on an infinity loop design. It accomplishes appreciable amounts of acceleration, but in a much more compact space. Essentially, it uses a three-dimensional array of electromagnets to spiral particles to the collision at the center.” Tara could see her posture loosening as she talked about her research. The cadence of her speech quickened and became more fluid as she spoke. “The drawback is an excess amount of synchrotron radiation, which is difficult to filter out, but the advantages in design and material elegancy render that a manageable issue.”
    “Have there been any other accidents with these types of devices?”
    “Not at this site.”
    “And other sites?”
    “That’s classified.”
    Tara stuck to the topic. “Do you know what caused the explosion?”
    “That’s unknown. The off-site recorder recorded normal power-up, but an unusual power surge crashed the instruments. We expect it was an accident.” Her voice was firm, but she bit her lip, telegraphing her unease with the decision “we” had made.
    “Have you found any remains?” Li’s voice was expressionless, but he leaned forward to hear the answer.
    DiRosa hesitated before she shook her head. “We found a contact lens and some textile evidence. We’re looking for DNA. As you can see, much of the structure is destroyed. If Magnusson was standing behind the radiation blast shield. . . here. . .”—she pointed to a blistered pile of rubble—“. . . there may be very little to find.”
    It was then Tara realized there was very little actual debris. She’d seen the aftermath of car bombs and IEDs. There was always wreckage left equal to the amount of the original structure. Nothing ever disappeared completely. That was simply a basic fact of the universe.
    Tara’s brow wrinkled. It seemed wrong. Half a building was destroyed, but there weren’t enough bricks, dust, and scraps of metal to make up the difference. Very little was actually vaporized in an explosion. Here, there was very clearly missing mass, tons of it, which meant missing evidence. She thought of the ants combing over the wreckage. The material had to have gone somewhere. Did they take it? Why?
    Li and DiRosa continued the interview dance, and Tara walked to the rubble she’d pointed to. The camera clicked in her hand, as she aimed it toward the ruined particle accelerator. She looked up at the hole in the roof open to the plastic sky. She imagined sky, imagined escaping this prison of plastic, then forced her thoughts back to earth.
    Breathe.
    This could be the last spot Lowell Magnusson had stood. Tara turned on her heel, trying to imagine what this place would have seemed, humming and whole, orderly. This place would have been close to him, familiar as his own home. The machine must have been sterile and imposing; he would have needed an office area. She saw no wood debris, no suggestion of file cabinets, no broken chairs, no detritus of computers. He must have had somewhere to analyze his data, some space for him to sit in a chair and think, to spin out his theories and compare them with the invisible realities he set in motion in the heart of the machine.
    “Did Dr. Magnusson have an office in this building?” she asked.
    DiRosa hesitated.