The watching small roof-dome of Outpost Alpha was the quietest place on the Moon.
Perched atop the underground castle like a glass eye staring into eternity, the heavy quartz dome looked out across the lonely, charcoal-gray expanse of Mare Tranquillitatis. In the airless silence outside, the frozen dust stretched to the curved horizon, flawless by wind or rain. And hanging directly overhead, suspended in the velvet blackness of the cosmos, was Earth—a brilliant, glowing jewel of swirling azure oceans, dazzling white storm bands, and emerald continents.
Inside the dome, the air was warm and alive.
The climate controls were set to twenty-two degrees. An emergency electric rising heat hearth—salvaged from the miners’ mess hall—glowed in the center of the circular room, casting warm amber light across the metal floor plates and creating the cozy illusion of a terrestrial campfire. The air smelled of drying fur, herbal antiseptic balm, heated tea. The rich, roasted scent of Toby’s freeze-dried campfire stew.
Arthur Vance sat cross-legged on a thick fleece blanket beside the hearth. His heavy combat armor was stowed in the corner. He wore only his dark tactical undersuit and a pair of soft wool socks.
Between his knees, Grimm was sprawled in total, uninhibited canine relaxation.
