The old count spoke without undue solemnity, yet Reichenbach sensed something weighty behind it, an inner shift toward something new.

“And what’ll happen here without you?” Reichenbach asked.

“It’s a blessing I have you, Reichenbach,” the old count replied, a wistful smile in his voice. “You don’t need me. It’s as good as if I were here. No task is too much.” Perhaps he truly smiled now, but it wasn’t visible.

“And tomorrow I’ll come by the factory again,” the old count added, then left.

Frau Paleczek appeared with a light and set the table, but as she brought the plates, she suddenly wailed and ran out. After a while, Susi brought the supper instead.

“Where’s Paleczek?” Reichenbach asked.

“She’s sitting in the kitchen crying,” Susi said, but then her composure broke too. She swallowed hard, abruptly sobbing, pulled her apron over her face, and ran out.

After poking at his food, Reichenbach rose and went to the children’s room. It had been fumigated with sulfur and juniper and sprayed with vinegar, still smelling sharp. The children lay in freshly made beds but weren’t asleep yet.

“Have you done your assignments for tomorrow?” Reichenbach asked, standing by Reinhold’s bed.

“Herr Futterknecht said,” Reinhold admitted hesitantly, “we don’t need to do assignments for tomorrow.”

“So!” Reichenbach said, nothing more. Then: “Good night! Sleep now.” He shook Reinhold’s hand, stroked Hermine’s forehead, and bent to kiss Ottane’s cheek.

The child flung her arms up, wrapped them around his neck, and pulled him close. “Papa,” she whispered, “I’ll always be good and love you so much.”

The painfully sweet tenderness of such clinging melted the stiffness in his limbs, and Reichenbach held Ottane close.

“I promised Mutti,” the child whispered, “and she’ll always come to me and tell me what the sky-sheep sing.”

“When did you promise Mutti?” Reichenbach asked, just as softly.

“Tonight—when she was with me.”

Tonight? Tonight? What could that mean, tonight? A sudden stab of dread seared his heart. Troubled, shaken to his core, Reichenbach tucked the blanket over Ottane and went to the next room, where the drawings for the new furnace still lay on the desk.

The furnace was built to Reichenbach’s plans and exceeded all expectations. It roared, spat, and glowed, producing nearly as much charcoal as the wood fed into it, and most importantly, showed no tendency for unexpected mischief.

Once it was running smoothly, Reichenbach decided it was time to restart the abandoned Doubrowitzer hammer mill. So he put it back into operation. Then he thought it was time to build a drilling rig. He built one, installing a drilling machine—naturally, the largest in Austria,and could bore cylinders over twelve feet in diameter.

Then Reichenbach turned to agriculture, starting, as agreed with the old count, to grow sugar beets, which naturally required a sugar factory. Since farming was foreign to him, with no innate knowledge of it, nothing became more important than beets and sugar. Some things succeeded, others failed, and years passed. Looking back on New Year’s Eve, it felt like each year had only begun the day before yesterday.

Meanwhile, the old count traveled the world, writing long letters to Reichenbach about his findings.

The old count wrote that he and Lord Rumford conducted experiments on gas expansion, especially gunpowder, nearly blowing themselves up once.

He wrote that he’d heard of Jenner’s vaccination discovery, calling it a magnificent invention, and was now vaccinating himself. He sent vaccine and needles to Reichenbach for free distribution, later adding a self-written treatise on cowpox.

Reichenbach replied that it was indeed a great invention, but the people wanted no part of it. Meanwhile, the workshop was now producing hydraulic presses, water-lifting, and conveyor machines.

The old count wrote that he was now studying the Loserdorre cattle breed disease, to be fought with iron-containing hydrochloric acid, and he sent a self-written pamphlet on it. He was also on the trail of a remedy for rabies, likely in a cyanide compound. But against cholera, no cure could be found.

Reichenbach replied that the Brno censor was a fool for banning the old count’s pamphlet. As for rabies, he begged him, for God’s sake, to be careful with sick animals. Meanwhile, he was shipping barrel hoops to Singapore, cookware to Haiti, iron stoves to Turkey, and creosote to America and Egypt. He said nothing about cholera or its treatment.

Sometimes the old count came home. His eyes had a restless glint; he laughed loudly, sat in Reichenbach’s sofa corner, smoked like a chimney, and drank heavy wine. He looked over the books, made a few tweaks to the machines, then vanished again for days. During one such visit, Forester Ruf came and said, “Can you believe, Herr Director, the old count stopped by my place today?”

“So what?” Reichenbach asked. Why shouldn’t the old count visit Ruf? He roamed the valley, dropping in on folks, asking how they were, urging them and their children to get vaccinated against smallpox. Sometimes he liked to wander the woods in shabby, tattered clothes, like a traveling journeyman, chatting with old peasant women to beg from those who didn’t know him, only to richly reward them afterward if they gave him something. Why shouldn’t he have visited Forester Ruf?

“Well, but,” Ruf said hesitantly, “you won’t believe it. He sent Schnuparek’s widow, who’s watching the child, away, and when I came in, he was crawling under the table with the girl on all fours, barking like a dog, fooling around. He brought her a big new doll, too, and when he left, I saw money tucked in the mirror frame.”

“Why shouldn’t he give you money, Ruf?” Reichenbach said. “He probably remembered being at your girl’s christening and how different things were then.”

“But I don’t know if I can keep it,” Ruf stammered, flushed with embarrassment. “It’s a whole hundred gulden. The old count must’ve made a mistake.”

“Keep it!” Reichenbach urged. Yes, great lords sometimes had such generous whims, and perhaps the old count, with his incognito wandering and gift-giving, took after a caliph who’d done similar things. But Ruf shouldn’t thank him—the old count didn’t like being reminded of his kindnesses.

The old count never stayed home long. He’d look around briefly, bring gifts for Reichenbach’s children, praise their growth, looks, and progress, discuss business and new scientific plans with Reichenbach. But Friederike Luise was never mentioned.

Then the old count went on his way again.

He wrote: He had been admitted to the Société Harmonique in Strasbourg, where new and remarkable insights into human nature were to be gained. He was increasingly convinced that hidden forces lay in the human soul—a mysterious agent, a magnetic fluid, stretching into the incomprehensible. Mesmerism was merely a casual name for it. The laws of this natural force were still little explored, and he urged Reichenbach to study it, believing his skill and persistence could greatly advance science.

Reichenbach, grappling with sugar beets and tenants, thought something irreverent. Mesmerism, he felt, was for people with too much time, and it could slide down his back. A few months later, a letter arrived: the old count had become politically suspect in Strasbourg, likely because the French government had once seized his ancestral castle in the Ardennes. Facing arrest, he chose to slip away, continuing his studies in Vienna.

Then no further news came until a thick letter arrived, addressed in a stranger’s hand with black seals. It stated that the old count Hugo zu Salm-Reifferscheidt had unexpectedly died in Vienna of a heart ailment, leaving his heirs, his father the old prince, the widow, and his son, the young count, instructed before his death to renew the general power of attorney for Herr Karl Reichenbach. The enclosed power of attorney was signed in accordance with the deceased’s wishes.

This was written not by the old prince, the widow, or the young count, but by the old princely lawyer, Dr. Gradwohl.

In the midst of a heated argument with the chief accountant over booking certain items, the door opens, and old Johann enters.

He had knocked, of course, but with the shouting as the general director defended his view, no one heard it. Old Johann hasn’t grown younger since that glorious night of the meteor fall—a parchment-stretched skeleton, cheekbones nearly piercing his skin, nose crooked over a sunken mouth, but his eyes hold a strange brightness, as if seeing things clearer than younger eyes, perhaps through them. He had accompanied the late old count on his travels, not always a restful job, judging by what Johann occasionally lets slip. At any rate, he returned to the Rajzter castle quite aged and worn, and for a while, he was allowed to rest and do nothing. But then they pulled him out again, and the young count said Johann was far from too old to do nothing but smoke his pipe and whistle to his starling. The young count, barely made prince after his grandfather’s death, brought a sharper edge to everything, tightening all that was loose.

And the young prince thought old Johann far from frail enough to eat his bread for free, still capable of sitting on the coachbox, so long as it wasn’t the wild Lipizzaners hitched up. He could still save them a second coachman.

Now old Johann announces that the carriage waits outside and that His Princely Grace requests General Director Reichenbach to Rajtzer Castle. He says “requests,” though His Princely Grace simply said: Reichenbach should come.

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Chapter 2

On the swing sat little Ottane, with Reinhold keeping it in motion.

“Higher!” Ottane squealed, kicking her thin legs. Her brother strained, stretching himself so that he could just barely touch the swing’s seat at its highest point with his fingertips.

“Now I’m flying!” Ottane crowed. “Now I’m flying into the sky, right through the clouds!”

“What do you see up there?” her brother asked, panting.

“I see lots of sheep on a green meadow. Nothing but—”white sheep. They have blue ribbons around their necks. No, some have red ones too. And they sing…”

“Sheep can’t sing,” Reinhold corrected.

“Oh, yes, the heavenly sheep can sing.” Ottane was indignant that Reinhold wouldn’t believe her sky-sheep could sing.

“If you talk such nonsense, you’ll have to get down,” said her brother, stopping the swing. “It’s Hermine’s turn now. Hermine!”

Hermine was kneeling in the grass by the flowerbed, holding a thick green seedpod in her hand. “Never mind,” she said, “I don’t want to.” She had other things to do; with a sharp little knife, she was already dissecting the elongated pod, carefully studying the arrangement of the snow-white, soft seeds in their tiny cradles.

Ottane obediently climbed off the now-still swing and walked slowly, a bit sadly, to her sister. “Is that why you don’t want to swing?” she asked. “There’s nothing better than flying like that.”

“Look!” Hermine held up the sliced pod to her sister. “See how beautifully the seeds lie side by side.” She pursued the life and growth of the plant world with passionate zeal, dissecting stems, flowers, and roots; her neatly kept herbarium had reached a tally of about five hundred specimens.

“No,” Ottane disagreed, “the whole thing is much nicer.” With a faint pang of regret, Ottane watched for a while as Hermine’s knife continued its work of destruction. Then she put her arm around her sister’s neck: “There’s a huge cake with a seven on it, and Friederike. And whole mountains of gingerbread, sooo high, and candied calamus and preserved nuts—”

“Father’s coming,” Reinhold said, standing by the girls, his voice carrying a note of warning. The children looked up, a ripple of tension and composure running through their bodies.

Reichenbach came through the garden, bringing with him the gravity of life, judicial sternness, responsibility, duty, and a faint unease about the incomprehensible. Only Ottane ran to her father, wrapping her arms around his knees. The other two stood stiff and alert, an unyielding will casting a shadow over them.

“Have you done your lessons?” Reichenbach asked, and the children nodded, Reinhold with a slightly guilty conscience, for two of his six math problems remained unsolved.

“Is Mother back from church yet?” he asked further. No, the christening party hadn’t returned yet; but the old countess had sent a ham and Linzer cookies, Ottane reported, and Frau Paleczek had arrived, putting on a large white apron and a white cap, looking so funny with her dark face, like a fly in buttermilk, Ottane thought.

Reichenbach stroked Ottane’s blond head, listening for a moment to the clatter of plates in the large room on the first floor, where the christening feast was being prepared, and to the booming voice of Frau Paleczek, who had taken command over the maids.

“She sent us out to the garden,” Ottane confessed,— “She doesn’t need us; we’re just in her way.”

Now Reichenbach noticed the sliced seedpod in Hermine’s hands. “Well done!” he praised. “What’s the plant called? Iris germanica. Repeat!”

“Iris germanica,” Hermine recited obediently.

“You’ll write down what you found while dissecting it. The work will be on my desk by noon tomorrow.”

“Father, what’s that?” Ottane asked, tapping the small linen sack Reichenbach held in his hand.

“Well, that’s something special.” Reichenbach lowered the heavy sack to the ground, reached in, and pulled out a black stone. It looked like a dark-brown coal with a host of strange bumps and hollows, as if it were made of a dark, molten glass fused into a lump. At the fracture, it was blue-gray, speckled with iron-gray and yellow flecks.

“What is it?” Reinhold asked eagerly.

“It’s a stone that fell from the sky,” Reichenbach said. When he spoke to the children, his Swabian dialect was scarcely noticeable. “And when it hit the Earth’s air, it shattered. That was a few days ago, at night, but you were all asleep, of course, and didn’t hear a thing. The foolish people say it’s a sign and means trouble. But it was just a stone—granted, a stone from the sky. And we’ve been searching for the pieces, hundreds of them, scattered in an elliptical— pattern, like a strewn field. The smaller pieces fall almost straight down, while the larger ones continue their slanted path. Remember that, Reinhold—you’ll work on a problem about it, and it’ll be on my desk by noon tomorrow. What you see on the outside here is a fusion crust. That comes from the tremendous speed and heat. And what’s inside the stone? I’ve already examined some of the pieces in the laboratory and found various minerals—nickel, labradorite, hornblende, chromite. Reinhold, what is chromite made of?”

Reinhold stared at the stone, a heavy unease sealing his lips. Chromite, my God, chromite—what’s it made of? He stayed silent.

“You don’t know,” said his father, his eyes hardening. “You don’t know. You’ll know it tomorrow and write it out a hundred times on my desk. It’s remarkable that these stones contain iron compounds not found in nature, but which we produce artificially in metallurgy.”

Reichenbach didn’t get a chance to expound further on these curious iron compounds, for now the sound of wheels rolling on the road was heard, and then the decorated carriages came into view, bringing the christening party back from the church.

Frau Paleczek poked her dark face, framed by the white cap, out of the open window and shouted, “Jesus, they’re already here!”

The children felt stones lift from their hearts, far larger and heavier than the ones that fell from the sky. They breathed a sigh of relief and ran to meet the guests. But Hermine still found time to give Reinhold a poke in the ribs. “Write it out a hundred times, ugh!” And Reinhold returned the poke with interest.

Ottane trailed behind slowly, lost in thought. A small tumult had erupted in her mind. Who was throwing these stones from the sky? On her green heavenly meadow with the singing sheep, there were no such black, ugly stones.

The christening feast was loud and merry. That Frau Friederike Luise Reichenbach had taken on the role of godmother for the seventh Ruf child turned the modest forester’s family event into a matter of significance, granting the father honors that dazed and delighted him long before the wine, provided by the old count from his cellar, took effect.

The pastor Mandrial was there, along with Dr. Roskoschny, the chemist Mader, and a dozen other senior officials from the Salm works, and, of course, the old count himself. He sat to the right of the hostess, and to her left, between him and the pastor, the proud father of today’s christened child swelled with a sense of boundless bliss and importance. He was clearly at a pinnacle of his existence, taking great care to match the refined manners and skill of the distinguished company around him. In doing so, he completely forgot the worries about his wife, who had been lying in high fever since the birth of the child, and the ominous head-shaking with which Dr. Roskoschny had stood at the sick woman’s bedside.

Reichenbach had taken his place between the chemist Mader and Dr. Roskoschny, who was Meineke’s successor as the doctor in Lettowitz. They were a welcome audience for his current obsession with meteors—their origins, orbits, and composition—especially since, alongside the already-convinced Mader, the doctor was a skeptic who still needed persuading.

At the lower end of the table sat the children next to their tutor, a poor, peasant-looking philosophy student named Futterknecht, whose name seemed to prophetically chart his life’s course. They were perfectly well-behaved and modest, but their eyes lingered with growing longing on the dish of the old count’s Linzer Kränzerln nearby, waiting for the moment it would be served.

But Frau Paleczek, midwife, corpse-washer, and indispensable fixture at every festive feast far and wide, kept bringing out new platters of roasted and baked poultry from the kitchen. Her quick eyes darted over the table and guests, and her face—blackened since time immemorial by some ailment—gave no hint of when she would finally allow them to move on to the long-prepared pastries.

“That’s how it is,” Reichenbach said, clapping the doctor on the shoulder. “You can believe me, and once I’ve thoroughly studied the material, I’ll write a major treatise on meteors that’ll push science forward a bit.”

The doctor shook his head, unable to accept what Reichenbach was explaining. “Couldn’t it have been an optical illusion?” he asked cautiously, with the tenacity of his old-school training, reluctant to abandon an opinion without proof.

“Optical illusion, please, Doctor,” Reichenbach snapped. “The old count saw it, and I saw it, and we were only on the second bottle of Forster Hofstück—where’s the illusion supposed to come from?”

The doctor stared gravely ahead. “For now, it looks like the common folk with their superstitions might be right.”

“Please, don’t talk like that as a man of science!”

“Haven’t you read about the epidemic in Hamburg?”

“What’s Hamburg got to do with us?”

“And last week it started in Prague. And since yesterday, I’ve had a case in Lettowitz that seems highly suspicious to me.”

Reichenbach paused. “What exactly do you mean?”

The doctor hesitated to say the word, glanced around, and then said very quietly, “Cholera! But please,” he added quickly, “keep it to yourself. The symptoms aren’t entirely clear yet. We don’t want to cause alarm among the people prematurely.”

A gray shadow fell over the table and the guests, a hollow-eyed specter in a blood-flecked shroud grinned palely through the loud, carefree merriment.

But Reichenbach wouldn’t let himself be daunted. “Oh, come off it,” he said brusquely, “with your cholera! In summer, it’s just stomachache season—people gobble cherries and currants and unripe apples, then gulp down raw milk, and there’s your cholera. Besides, if medicine was worth anything, it would’ve found a cure for it by now.”

“The best remedy for cholera is not catching it,” the doctor admitted. “Careful eating, plenty of fresh air, and staying away from the sick.”

“That’s not much wisdom to boast about,” Reichenbach scoffed. “And the best remedy for childbed fever is not having children!” Then he added, “How’s our Frau Ruf doing?”

“I hope we’ll pull her through,” Roskoschny said curtly.

A gesture from the hostess drew Reichenbach away from further attacks on medicine. It reminded him of his duties. With a sharp tap of his knife against his glass, Reichenbach called for attention and stood to toast the christened child and her proud father. After tossing in a few more jocular remarks about Ruf’s remarkable vigor and the blessings of his marriage, he urged those present to raise their glasses to the father and little Friederike.

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Chapter 5: Into the Unknown

Adam Gardner was very effective in making travel arrangements, and as Tobal recalled the old man’s warm hug and the Time Knights’ promise of his parents’ survival, he found himself a few hours later with a full stomach, refreshed, and once more on an airbus heading toward what he fervently hoped was his final destination. A Wild whisper brushed his mind—“The medallion’s echo calls”—as he fingered the weight around his neck, its calm power steadying him.

It was mid-April, and the sun shone brightly as the airbus flew east toward the Cascade Mountains. Patches of snow grew the farther they flew until it covered everything in an unbroken blanket. From the air, he could see deer sheltered in valleys, herded together for protection against natural predators such as the timber wolf and mountain lion. Hardwood trees looked like skeletal ghosts as they raised leafless arms to the heavens. There were patches scattered like occasional cemeteries hidden within the deep pine forests. The airbus flew low enough that Tobal could make out an occasional fox or wolf. Flying over the wilderness made him realize how far from civilization and the Federation he was going. The pines were dark green, and the boughs weighed heavily with snow, blocking all efforts to see the ground beneath.

It was almost an hour before he caught his first glimpse of Heliopolis. From the air, the city-state looked huge and modern. He saw one huge complex that must be the living quarters, a large open agricultural area, and a wooded park. They were all within tall, imposing walls that encircled the city itself. To Tobal, it didn’t look much different from any other modern city-state he had visited. As the airbus descended, he was surprised the pilot was not taking him into the city but dropping him outside it into a snow-covered courtyard.

“There you go, son,” the airbus driver told him cheerfully. “Take care of yourself; they’re a bit strange here. Don’t really see much of anybody. Haven’t been here that much, and I don’t want to either.” The driver opened the door, and Tobal stepped outside into the cold winter landscape. It was one o’clock in the afternoon on April 13. The airbus took off, leaving Tobal standing in a cloud of snow just outside the high walls. A shadow flitted near the wall, gone before he could focus, stirring a flicker of unease.

Tobal began looking for some way into the city. Not finding any, he spied a small building near the edge of the woods about 100 yards away from the wall. He waded through knee-high snow toward the windowless, dome-like structure. There was an arched doorway with a faded, snow-covered sign. The snow was so bright it hurt his eyes, and he had to squint against it. As he came nearer, he made out the word “Sanctuary”. He recalled the letter from his parents had mentioned claiming sanctuary. Somewhat reassured, he entered the portal that opened silently at his approach and stepped inside. It was dim, and his eyes took time adjusting to the faint light. He kicked the snow off his boots onto the gleaming tiled floor. To the left, he saw a computer terminal. A light on the console was flashing urgently.

He walked over to examine the terminal more closely. As he neared it, a disembodied voice came from somewhere near the terminal base. “Welcome, Welcome.” “Do you seek Sanctuary in Heliopolis, the city of the sun?” The same words scrolled across the screen. “Do you seek Sanctuary in Heliopolis, the city of the sun?” A prompt flashed on the screen, “Say Yes or No.” “Yes,” Tobal said. “I claim sanctuary.” “Then enter here,” an oval door slid open to reveal a small interior lighted room. The door slid closed behind him as soon as he stepped completely into the room.

“What is your name?” The voice intoned, now coming from somewhere ahead of him. What followed was a grueling 70-minute question-and-answer session in which the computer questioned Tobal about every area of his past and present. There was no place to sit, and it was uncomfortable, but he was committed at this point. There were questions he could not answer, but that did not bother the computer. Finally, the computer turned silent as it processed the information. After a short time, it spoke again. “You must go through processing before you can enter sanctuary. Processing will include detailed medical and psychological examinations. These will be automated. The purpose of these examinations is to ensure the current state of your health. In addition, the information will allow us to better understand your needs and abilities. This will aid us in determining how you will best fit into our society. These examinations will take place within this building and last approximately two days.”

One wall of the small room slid open, and a voice prompted him to enter and begin the medical examination. The wall slid closed behind him, and he found himself in a small hallway. Another wall section slid open to the right, and he stepped into another small room. A drawer slid out from the wall as the voice continued. “Please place your clothing and personal items into the drawer. You cannot take any items into the examinations. Place your items here for safekeeping. They will be returned to you after you have entered Heliopolis.” Tobal stripped and began placing his clothing and boots into the drawer. He hesitated with the medallion in hand, but an intuitive flash of warning—his parents’ voices urging him to hold fast—stopped him. Clutching it tightly, he pushed the drawer shut, a faint pulse from the medallion reassuring him.

“You may proceed with the medical examination now. We will be starting with a shower.” A small shower nozzle emerged from the ceiling and began spraying him with tepid soapy water that left his eyes stinging and his lungs gasping for breath. This was followed by a rinse of cold water as distinctly unpleasant as the jets of air that dried him off.

Realizing the futility of further resistance and wiping back an angry tear, Tobal finally gave up and concentrated on what lay ahead. He moved from cubicle to cubicle and was given an exhaustive physical exam that lasted several hours. As he shifted between cubicles, a vision flashed—himself alone under a snow-capped peak, the medallion glowing as he built a shelter—then faded, leaving him shaken. Then he was given a small silver bracelet and instructed to wear it at all times. It was a med-alert bracelet that monitored his physical health and acted as a locating device so he could be found in an emergency.

After the physical examination, he began a series of mental and psychological tests that seemed to last forever. Small breaks were given with food and water appearing out of the wall just like the drawer had. Twice he slept on a cot that slid out of the wall. The first things he learned were the controls to activate the food and water. The bathroom and shower were the next. He lost all sense of time, and for two days, he was moved from one cubicle to another, problem-solving, analyzing, and doing test questions on a computer screen or taking objects apart and putting them back together again in demonstrations of physical dexterity.

After two days of wearing nothing but a silver bracelet, Tobal was relieved when a drawer opened containing clothing. There was a gray woolen robe that reached to the floor, folded gray blankets of the same material, a pack, a sleeping bag, and a pair of hiking boots with several pairs of socks. He was busy tying his new boots when a final door opened with a cold draft, and the computer voice said, “Welcome to Sanctuary.” As the door closed behind him, Tobal found himself in dim light standing between rows of sleeping cots. It was a dormitory of some sort. His legs started trembling, and he sat down on one of the cots. It was hard and uncomfortable like molded plastic or ceramic. Still shaken by his experience of the past two days, he wondered what he should do now. Sanctuary was not what he had expected, and he had not seen another living soul. He was nervous but relieved the medallion still hung against his chest.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and he heard a noise in the corner to his right. Moving closer, he saw two of the cots were occupied by sleeping figures. Against the wall, he saw another food and water dispenser. To the right was the restroom and shower area. He walked around, exploring each area in the dim light. He didn’t see any exits, and it smelled like a locker room.

Moving over to the food and water dispenser, he tried some of the food and nearly gagged. The machine dispensed soft chewy bars, the consistency of glued-together oatmeal. It was cold and distinctly unpleasant with a wicked aftertaste that stayed long after the food was gone. He grabbed a paper cup filled with water, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. The water had a strong plastic taste and odor that made it just as unpleasant as the food bar. While it was wet, it was not at all satisfying. Again, he sat down on the nearest cot and tried to think. So this was sanctuary. Just what was Sanctuary? What had he gotten himself into?

There had to be a way out. He walked slowly around the room, brushing his hand against the wall, and in the darkest corner noticed something he had missed before. He entered the darkness and turned a corner that was barely visible. A light was glowing weakly, and he moved cautiously toward it in the gloom. The light seemed to be flashing and oddly familiar. As he came closer, he recognized it as the terminal he had first encountered on entering the building. At his approach, it sprang to life and asked, “Do you seek sanctuary in Heliopolis, the city of the sun?” “Hey, what’s the matter?” “Everything ok?” Tobal heard someone come up behind him and start shaking him on the shoulder. He looked up, and there was a smaller, tow-haired boy with a shock of yellow hair grinning impishly. His face was full of mischief.

“What’s wrong?” Tobal replied, his voice steadying. “I almost lost my medallion—my parents’ gift—but kept it.” Rafe’s eyes sparkled. “Smart move. That medallion’s got old tales—might guide you yet. You’ll get your other stuff back after citizenship.” “Become a citizen?” Tobal asked. “Yeah, first you claim sanctuary, then after training, you’re granted citizenship.” “You mean I can’t get into the city right away?” Tobal asked anxiously. Rafe laughed, “Hey, that’s a good one! Didn’t your parents tell you anything?” “My parents are dead.” “Oh,” the smile vanished a minute from Rafe’s face, then returned. “There’s preliminary training before citizenship. Claiming sanctuary means applying; you prove yourself with three degrees of training.” “What are they?” Tobal asked. “The Apprentice degree is basic survival training,” Rafe said, “You survive in the woods alone for one month.” “I can’t survive in the woods for a month!” Tobal exclaimed helplessly. “How do I learn? How do I live with no food or shelter? I’ll die!” “That’s right,” Rafe grinned. “That’s why I’m here. You need a teacher. The solo comes after training—I’ll teach you survival skills. I’m Rafe,” he said, extending his hand in welcome. Tobal shook hands.

He pointed at the chevrons sewn on his jacket. “Each chevron’s for someone I’ve trained who soloed. You’re my sixth and last. After you solo, I move to Journeyman.” “Then I have to train people?” Tobal muttered. “Yes, that’s how you prove mastery and leadership.” “That will take forever!” “No, it depends on your effort,” Rafe said cheerfully. “I’ve done this in a year with six. Some take six years.” He winked, “I was sleeping—waiting for you.” “Waiting for me?” “Well, someone. My food’s nearly gone; I can’t eat that brown crap.” He grinned, “Tried it?” Tobal nodded, grinning back, “Couldn’t either.” Rafe chuckled, “That’s the point—uncomfortable beds and bad food push you to the woods.” “What about her?” Tobal pointed at the other cot. “Oh, Angel, a journeyman injured in the mountains. Medics reset her leg; she’s grumpy, so let her sleep,” Rafe warned, finger to lips. The figure stirred and groaned.

“Now, check your pack,” Rafe said. Tobal’s things lay on a cot. Rafe spread them out: eleven sock pairs, hiking boots, compass, canteens, sheath knife, belt, fire starter, map, first aid kit, sewing kit, toothbrush, comb, pencils, and paper. Rafe pointed to the silver bracelet. “That’s a med-alert—wear it always. It tracks health and location for emergencies.” He handed Tobal the knife and belt. “This keeps your robe shut—drafty otherwise.” Tobal noted, “Good boots.” Rafe snorted, “Worn out in two months—rugged out here.”

The robe reminded Tobal of monks—scratchy, woolen, hooded. “No underwear?” Rafe laughed, “Make your own. I did.” Rafe wore a tailored tunic and trousers, Ren Fair-style. “Winter gear here,” Rafe added, fetching a fur robe, boots, hat, mittens, and snowshoes, helping Tobal don them. “Fill canteens first,” Rafe said. They filled them and stepped outside. Tobal practiced snowshoes, improving quickly.

“See that peak?” Rafe pointed east to Old Baldy. “We’re heading that way, using it as a landmark. Don’t get lost—use maps and landmarks.” “Check your compass, turn north, align with Old Baldy—east-northeast,” Rafe instructed, showing Tobal the lensatic compass. He handed him a cord. “Tie this around your neck, leave ends free. A mile’s 5280 feet, or 1760 yards. Take three-foot steps, count, tie a knot every 880 paces—half a mile. Get your map.”

Tobal pulled out the map. “Lay it north-up, use the compass,” Rafe said. Tobal did, weighting it with stones. “Find landmarks—mountains, lakes. Spot Old Baldy.” “How do I know which?” “Look for unique traits—isolated, tall. Find Hermit’s Peak south, alone, low.” Tobal struggled, then pointed. Rafe laid a string north-south across it. “We’re north of it. Now find Old Baldy, east-northeast.” Tobal traced contours, spotting it. Rafe crossed with another string. Heliopolis marked their intersection. “Easy,” Tobal said. Rafe smiled, “Sometimes. We’re going four miles toward Old Baldy. One inch equals one mile—measure four inches.” Tobal marked it—a creek nearby. “Our camp,” Rafe said. “How do we know four miles?” “Eight knots,” Tobal answered. “Great! Let’s go,” Rafe laughed.

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