Orison gave her back the strip in the morning.
She had not known it could. She had not asked; she had assumed the strip was still in the slot at the gate, holding the ring open or holding it shut, and that taking it out would seal them in or lock them out. But when she woke on the grating, there was a small drawer open in the wall beside the bench, a drawer she had not noticed, and in it, on a pad of grey felt, lay the strip. Black, straight, a finger’s width shorter than it had been, where Tavin’s sample had been cut.
“The gate returned it,” Orison said, “when you were entered as a candidate. A candidate keeps the token that admitted her. I believe that is the rule. I have a record that tokens are returned.” A pause. “I do not have a record of returning one before.”
She picked it up. It was cool. The graft gave its low steady hum, the same as on the field, the same as in the cabin.
“Thank you,” she said, and put it in the harness, in the pocket beside the stub.
Then she went out onto the inner shell.
