True plumb was not an opinion. It was the gravity vector pointing directly to the balance point of the planet.
At one hundred and five thousand feet height, young Toby Karr stood atop the apex watching platform of the Spire, his boots lashed securely to the nickel-steel outrigger truss.
In his hands, he held the master brass earth-measuring sighting scope that Giles Croft had carried since the first bitter winter at Grey Crag.
The instrument was an antique masterpiece of town care, fitted with silver fine-scale scales, sight hair-width drums, and dual spirit vials sensitive to a single arc-second of angular tilt.
Toby adjusted the fine tangent screw with a light, feather-touch of his index finger.
“Target prism sighted at Benchmark Zero,” Toby called out into his radio headset. His voice was calm, clear, and thoroughly skilled.
“Compass bearing angle is zero degrees, zero minutes, zero point zero seconds.
Sighting through twenty miles of mesosphere down to the granite benchmark at the base.”
