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momentarily glinted silver, on the summit of a high distant peak. The cactus gave way to a scattering of scrub oak and piñon pine.
    After some minutes a cluster of timber houses appeared, straight out of the Wild West. A notice said
Piñon Mesa, alt. 5500 ft
. There were no signs of life.
    “Survivalist community,” said Noordhof. “They’re armed to the teeth and they don’t like us. But you won’t be down here.”
    The track ended at a wooden barred gate, and Noordhof kept the engine running as Webb fumbled with a padlock, feeling exposed. The buzz of a chainsaw came from the woods beyond, but he saw nothing through the trees. Then the real climb got under way, and the engine started to labour in earnest, and the air got colder, and Judy’s thigh got warmer, and the scrub oak gave way to juniper pine, and then the juniper gave way to big, heavy ponderosa. Through the trees Webb caught glimpses of the setting sun to the left, and tiny bugs crawling along a ribbon cutting through the desert. The Firebird’s suspension coped well with the potholes, but the heating didn’t seem to work.
    Higher still, and the branches were covered with thin, freshly fallen snow, and they were following the tracks of some vehicle which had gone before.
    They ran into cloud from below, and for the next fifteen minutes were enveloped in a light freezing mist, visibility about fifty yards, as the car continued to toil upwards. Finally the road began to level, the tops of buildings appeared over the trees and then the car was round a last hairpin bend and driving past the buildings into a paved car park at the side. Noordhof turned to them. “Eagle Peak. I’m told nobody ever comes here in the winter apart from astronomers and the odd black bear. But I still want you people sticking close to the Observatory. No wandering the hills.”
    “Why haven’t you fenced it off, Colonel?” Shafer asked.
    “Just in case some stray backpacker comes by. Guards and fences going up round a civilian building might draw attention. Our best protection is the semblance of normality.”
    They climbed out, stiff, breaths misting. The air was freshand pine-scented. Judy flapped her arms against her sides. To Webb, the combination of hairstyle and dress made her look like a resistance heroine from a World War Two movie. He stretched and walked round to the front, curious to explore his new surroundings. The snow was powdery underfoot and Shafer was having problems assembling a snowball. Noordhof piled their luggage out on to the tarmac.
    A small, wiry man, with a neat grey beard, appeared at the front door. “Doctor Webb,” he said, stretching his hand. “Heard you in Versailles last year. Delighted to meet you at last. And I’ve read a fair number of your papers, of course. I feel as if I know you.” So this was Kenneth Kowalski. His Polish origins were obvious in his polite manner and his slightly clipped accent: second-generation American. Webb knew Kowalski’s reputation. Amongst observers, he was highly regarded, a careful stargazer who had transformed Eagle Peak from a dilapidated museum piece into a respected scientific tool. It didn’t have the world-class clout of Gemini at Cerro Pachon or the huge Keck ten-metre on Hawaii; but for rapid sky coverage, which is what the problem called for, it had these monsters licked. “We must talk about your work on the revised steady state theory after this is over. Of course you’re wrong. It’s an observed fact that the Universe is different at high redshift.”
    Webb returned the grin and bowed. “All right-thinking people agree with you. So, this is the famous Eagle Peak Observatory?”
    “You’re just at Base Camp,” Kowalski said. “The telescopes are much higher up.” He pointed to a squat grey building fifty yards away, and just visible in the mist. Through its windows Webb could see a small silver cable car. A thin cable stretched up from the roof of the building like a giant metal