A straight line across fourteen miles of open ocean was not a matter of luck.
It was an argument between mathematics and the curve of the earth.
Giles Croft stood on the concrete low roof wall of Cell Thirty-Two, the midpoint of the great cofferdam. He peeked through the eyepiece of his long-range earth-measuring transit.
The morning sun was rising over the eastern headlands. It cast long, sharp shadows across the four-track railway line that spanned the crest of the barrier.
Beside him, Toby Karr held a tuned invar leveling rod equipped with a lit up fine-scale target.
“Take the reverse reading on Benchmark East, Toby,” Giles said, his pencil poised over the thick parchment survey register.
Toby dialed the hair-width knob on his tripod.
“Backsight reading on East Pier is four point zero two meters, Master Giles. Beam-focus error is zero.
