Night fell over the steppe without the relief of moisture. The heat dropped forty degrees in two hours. That turned the hot bitter salt dust into a freezing, razor-sharp wind that howled across the high western bluff.
Nessa Vale stood on the rocky promontory overlooking the vast, black emptiness of the Green River valley. She had wrapped her legs in heavy wool felt and tied her fur-lined hood tightly beneath her chin. Before her, the heavy brass sighting scope was mounted on its tripod, its level vials checked by the pale light of a single shielded oil wick.
Tomas Reed knelt beside the battery of sighting instruments. He held his brass chronograph watch in his right hand and his pocket tables on his knee. His left forearm, bound tightly in calfskin, rested across the drafting board to steady it against the gale.
“We’re sighting Polaris at upper culmination,” Nessa said, her teeth clicking faintly from the cold. “In thirty seconds, the North Star will cross the local sky spirit vein. At that precise instant, the star’s compass bearing is zero degrees true north. We don’t rely on iron compass needles that waver near dark rock hills. We tie our baseline to the axis of the earth.”
