The southern approaches to Haven-Hold had not been left to chance, nature, or military tradition.
Every road, ditch, hedgerow, and bridge had been surveyed, graded, and paved according to Chapter Nine of the Municipal Transit Code.
The main blood highway was three lanes of dense macadam. It was flanked on either side by five-foot trapezoidal drainage ditches with three-to-one side slopes.
Every turnpike intersection was built as a single-lane limited-access roundabout, crowned with crushed granite and ringed by pre-cast concrete curbs.
Giles Croft stood on the timber watching platform of Signal Tower Nine, drinking chicory from his tin cup.
Beside him, Toby Karr was peering through a brass tracking telescope, jotting numbers onto a clipboard.
“They’re bunching up at Roundabout Four,” Toby called out.
He shook his head, a wry grin touching his lips.
