During the course of his life, Nightingale couldn't recall having ever hated anyone. Other than MacAllister. In the moment that the editor had asked Nightingale to step inside the tower, he had searched his mind for the correct riposte, the cutting remark that would slice this walking pomposity into his component parts.

But nothing had come to mind. You buffoon, he might have said, and MacAllister would have flicked him away. Windbag. Poseur.

The pilot of the Star lander walked past him with another pile of sticks. "Chair," he said.

"Okay."

"Hutch said I could have it."

"Okay."

In the end he had meekly complied with the request and stood away from the scan's line of sight. But he really couldn't do his job properly, stowed inside the tower, couldn't see everything he needed to, especially couldn't see the strip of trees from which the biped cat had emerged. So he came out every few minutes, in a small act of defiance, walked about for a bit, and then retired back inside.

He was following the conversations in the tunnels. Toni, hauling chunks of inscribed stone to the surface, announced that she'd found a coin. "What kind?" Nightingale asked, excited. "What's on it?"

He was standing outside watching the trees. Watching Wetheral.

"Just a minute," she said.

And while he waited, the ground moved.

It rolled beneath him. MacAllister and the woman in the lander stopped talking and turned to stare at him. Wetheral paused midway between the tower and his own spacecraft and stood with the chair held absurdly over his head.

The earth shrugged and threw Nightingale flat into the snow. He heard frightened cries on the allcom, watched the Wildside lander begin to lean over on one tread until the tread collapsed. The earth shook again, briefly. The ground and the sky seemed to be waiting. More was coming; he knew damned well more was coming.

He thought about retreating into the tower. But that would be stupid. Why put rocks over his head? Instead he moved out away from it, but had gone only a few steps when another shock hit. Big one this time. He went down again. A ripple ran across the landscape. The snow broke apart under Wetheral's feet. The pilot tried to run, absurdly still holding the chair. The ground ripped open and he fell in. Disappeared. His lander tilted, and it, too, slid into the hole.

All this was accomplished in an eerie silence. If Wetheral had protested, screamed, called for help, he'd been off-channel. Now a roar broke over Nightingale's ears, like an ocean crashing into a rocky headland, and the world continued to tremble. The earth shook and quieted. And shook again. An enormous stone block slammed into the snow a few meters away. He looked up, saw that it had broken off the roof, saw also that the tower had begun to lean to one side.

The hole into which Wetheral and his lander had fallen widened. Gaped. It was becoming a chasm.

MacAllister was sitting in the Wildside lander staring at him, or maybe at the tower, with his eyes wide. Now, thought Nightingale with a sense of grim satisfaction, let's see how it goes with you.

Marcel came on the link and was demanding to know what was happening. Chiang reported collapsing walls. A cloud of dust rolled out of the tower. Hutch was on the allcom telling everyone to get outside.

Kellie, who'd been on the upper level, climbed through a window, saw him, and dropped to the ground. It was a long fall but she seemed unhurt. "Did they come up yet?" she asked.

Hutch was still on the link, saying something. He needed a moment to make it out.

"Randy, you there?"

"I'm here," he said. "I'm with Kellie." Just then Chiang staggered out through the entrance.

"Over here," Kellie told him.

Nightingale caught a glimpse of their lander. It had taken off, was in the air, trying to get away from the quake. "MacAllister's stealing the lander," he said.

"Talk to me later. Where's Toni?"

"Don't know. Still inside."

"How about Chiang?"

"Chiang's here. He's with us."

"Toni?" said Hutch.

Nothing.

"Toni!"

Still no answer.

"Isn't she below with you?" Chiang asked her.

"She was headed topside."

Nightingale was knocked down again at the same moment that he heard a distant explosion.

Hutch was still calling Toni's name.

As she moved through the tunnel with her artifacts, Toni was acutely aware of the considerable weight of rock, dirt, and ice overhead. Given her choice, she'd have taken permanent guard duty, preferably at the top of the tower.

She was on her hands and knees, the slabs slung in a pack around her shoulders, thinking about Scolari. He was alone in Wildside with Embry. She had no reason to be jealous, but she felt a stab anyhow. It was hard to imagine that they had not been together these last couple of nights.

She was trying to decide how much responsibility Hutch bore for her loss when the quake came.

The floor shook. Dust rained down on her, the room sagged, and a crossbeam crashed down directly in front of her. The room continued to tremble, and she threw herself flat out and put her hands over her head. Her lamp went out. She tried crawling past the fallen beam but the room kept moving, tilting, and then a terrible grinding began above her. The overhead grated and rasped and screeched. Something cracked, loud and hard, like a tree broken in two. Or a backbone.

A weight fell on her, driving the air from her lungs, pinning her to the floor. A darkness, deeper and blacker than that in the chamber, rushed through her. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't call anyone.

Somewhere, she heard a voice. Hutch's, she thought, but she couldn't make out what she was saying.

Her last thought was that all her plans, her new career, Scolari, her return home, the child she hoped one day to bear, none of it was going to happen.

She wasn't even going to get off this goddam world.

Hutch was crawling through the dark when Nightingale came on the circuit. "I think we've got some bad news out here," he said. "What?" she asked, bracing herself.

MacAllister watched with horror as first Wetheral and then the Star spacecraft disappeared into the chasm that had opened, that was still opening, like a vast pair of jaws. Wetheral had frozen, not knowing which way to run, had slipped and gone to his knees, and the crevice had come after him like a tiger after a deer while he futilely jabbed that pathetic pile of sticks at it as if to fend it off. He was still jabbing, falling backward, when it took him and, in quick succession, took the lander.

Their own vehicle was shaking itself to pieces. He looked at Casey, and her eyes were wide with fear.

The ground beside them broke open, and the lander began to sink. The hatch, which was not shut, swung wide, and MacAllister stared down into a chasm.

Got to get out. They would die if they stayed where they were. But the only exit was through the hatch, which hung out over the hole.

He searched for something he could use to knock out a window. Casey read his mind and shook her head. "They're not breakable," she cried.

A door in the rear of the cabin led through to the cargo locker, but he'd never fit. The angle kept getting more pronounced. They were sliding into the chasm. MacAllister leaned hard to his right, in the opposite direction, pushed against his chair arm, as if that might slow the process.

"My God, Casey." His voice squeaked. "Get us out of here."

"Me? Her face was pale. "What do you expect me to do?"

"You said you could fly these damned things."

"I said I had some experience with landers. This is a bus."

"Do it. Try it, for God's sake, or-"

She got up and climbed into the pilot's seat, taking care not to look toward the hatch.

"Use the autopilot," MacAllister urged. "Just telrit to take off."