'Nothing. Nothing.'

'Are you all right?'

'Yes. Please continue.'

The call rang in the tunnel and became him, so he could not tell which was him, the cry, the tunnel. 'It is. Grus grus.'

'What, Colin?'

'Grus grus.'

'Do you want to come out?'

'No. Go on. Grus grus. The common crane.'

'That's fine. Relax.'

'Grus grus. Grus grus.'

He closed his eyes. Although he did not move he flew, and the tunnel was a turning sky with stars, five-pointed, red; against his lids. His legs stretched, his throat held the calling; and Time was still.

'We've finished, Colin. You've done very well. We're bringing you out now.'

He did not want it to end. He floated in the night and was one with stars and birds. 'Don't stop. Don't stop the music.'

'Don't worry. I'm here, Col. I'm not leaving you.'

The bench slid back. He opened his eyes. The tube pa.s.sed, and the nurse was standing by. She lifted the cover from his head. 'Lie there a moment, Colin. That racket can make you dizzy; and we have to check the scan. But you were very good. I thought you'd dropped off to sleep. It's surprising how it affects different people sometimes.'

'Oh, where? Where are you? Tell me.'

'I'm here, Colin. You can get dressed and go home now. Give me your hand, and we'll ring for your taxi.'

Each year he sang and danced in Ludcruck and cut between the worlds to make the beasts free and bring their spirits from behind the rock so that they could spread across the land. And in winter he watched the Bull climb the wall of the sky cave and the Stone Spirit riding to send out eagles to feed the stars. All this he did, though it brought no woman. But every year the sun turned, because of the dance.

Colin rolled the empty oil drum along the floor of the quarry to the hut. He went back and rolled another. He brought out a notebook, callipers, a flexible rule and a pair of dividers, and put them on the table. He tipped the first drum upright and set it level and fixed rocks about it to hold it steady. Then he lifted a stone in both hands and, using it as a maul, began to beat the flat top, moving round the rim and inwards, depressing the surface with dimples. The banging echoed on the rocks.

Round and round he went, so that the metal bent evenly without rupturing the join to the rim. The head of the drum became a dish. He dropped the maul and picked up a mallet and continued round, smoothing the dimples and working the middle down so that the dishing grew steeper. When it was the right depth he took a soft-faced ball-peen hammer and worked more gently, removing the irregularities, making the skin smooth.

He looked at his notes, and measured the hollow, checking with the callipers and marking points with the dividers. Next, he scored a line about the side of the drum, keeping one leg of the dividers against the rim. He lifted the drum, laid it down and worked along the line with mallet and a blunt chisel, driving slots, until with a single knock the top was free. He took it and threw it onto a fire of pallets he had stacked, and he sat and drank water from a can while the fire died.

He pulled the drum head from the ashes and quenched it, and when it had cooled he sat on the ground with it between his legs, read his notes and scored more lines inside the dish with callipers and dividers, turning, checking, turning, checking.

He linked a piezo tuner to the rim and went on tapping.

'Da-di-dum, ti-dum-ti-dumti-' He tapped to the readings of the tuner. '-Dove an-dr senza il mio ben?-' The metal showed the physics of the scoring. The lines drew together as they ought. The maths was right '-Io son pu-re, il tuo fedel-e-' So elegant. '-Rum-ti-t.i.ti-pom-ti. Rum-ti-t.i.ti-pomti. Ti-pom-ti!'

Colin sat and looked at what he had done. The quarry was quiet.

A noise broke in. He twisted towards the entrance. It was the sound of a machine, an engine, coughing and struggling over the ground. A motorbike appeared at the entrance, black, with high handlebars, black, and the rider was all in black leathers, gauntlets, helmet and visor. It came towards him across the quarry floor. Colin hugged the drum and shuffled away.

'No.'

It came nearer.

'No.'

It stopped. The rider cut the engine, and a gauntlet lifted the visor.

'Hi,' said Meg.

'What are you doing here? What do you want?'

'I did ring, sweetie, but you weren't answering. I thought I'd check out your lair. Have I disturbed you?'

'No. No,' said Colin. 'I don't like surprises, that's all. Sorry.'

'Don't apologise. How many times do I have to say it?'

'Sorry,' said Colin. He got up. 'Please come in.'

Meg dismounted, took off the helmet and shook her hair.

'What are you at?' she said.

'I'm making two parabolic dishes. Do come in.'

They went to the hut.

Meg looked around. 'Hey, this is something else.'

'Would you like tea?'

'Thanks.'

'Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?'

'I'll pa.s.s on the scented muck. Plain builder's with milk, if you have it,' said Meg. 'And no sugar.'

'I think I can do that,' said Colin.

He lit a Primus stove and filled a kettle.

'Bert told me there wasn't electricity,' said Meg.

'I have enough electricity at work. And those harsh lights. I keep a wind-up torch, batteries and a generator for emergencies.'

'Great. What a place, Colin. How did you find this? Suburgatory it is not.'

'I built it.'

'Built it? By yourself?'

'From a kit. It's a mountain hut. A Bergli. I ordered it from Switzerland.'

'These flag floors aren't Swiss.'

'No. They were under the gra.s.s. All I had to do was level them. Someone must have been here before me. And there was a rock garden of sorts at one time; which is why there are those blasted rhododendrons. But I'm clearing them, bit by bit. I hate rhododendrons.'

'Why?'

'They're alien. Wrong. Evil. They shouldn't be allowed.'

'Why do you live here?'

'Why shouldn't I?'

'Fair question, dodgy answer. So why?'

'Someone has to look after the Edge. There always is someone; always has been.'

'How do you know?'

'He's everywhere,' said Colin. 'If you look, you see. His face. He's obvious, in the rock, once you get your eye in.'

'"He"?' said Meg.

'Always.'

'So why you?'

'It's the only way I can be sure the Edge stays,' said Colin.

'Stays where?'

'Exists.'

'Tell me,' said Meg.

'I have to be able to see the Edge from wherever I am,' said Colin; 'in order to keep it. If something isn't looked at it may go, or change, or never be.'

'Isn't that tampering with the metaphysical?' said Meg. 'The same argument used to "prove" the existence of G.o.d. "Since we know there's a sea over the mountain, someone must be observing the sea, the mountain and us. Ergo G.o.d."'

'But do we "know"?' said Colin.

'Well, if I've booked a flight to a conference in LA and when I get there the runway hasn't been built, I'm going to be pretty hacked off.'

'I never fly.'

'Come on,' said Meg. 'You can do better than that.'

'It's more subtle now we have quantum mechanics. You must be aware that matter can be in two places and in two states at the same instant, as both a particle and a wave. Yes?'

'I did get that far. Once upon a time.'

'And if we look at it, if that matter is observed, it can change. The very act of observing makes it change. It's not quite as simple as I'm expressing it; but that's why I have to guard the Edge: to keep it in balance.'

'But what about your job? The shenanigans of giving papers and traipsing round the world all the time?'

'I don't travel.'

'Ever?'

'I mustn't be away overnight.'

'How can you not be? You're an authority, probably the main authority, on your subject. I do my homework. I've read up on you. You're the tops.'

'I can write without leaving here,' said Colin. 'Someone else gives the papers.'

'But you must have to show your face.'

'Meg. You're embarra.s.sing me.'

'How's that?'

'I don't have to show my face. There are video links. If people care enough about my work to discuss it, they come to me.'

'Here?'

'At the telescope. No one comes here. It's private.'

'So I've intruded.'

'That's all right. You weren't to know.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Now look who's apologising.'

'But what if you were taken sick?' said Meg. 'What if you had to be hospitalised, an illness, surgery?'

'I'm never ill,' said Colin. 'I must never need or have surgery. Don't talk about it!'

'I'll take a raincheck on that,' said Meg. 'It smacks of the three-card trick to me. Shall we drink this tea before it's stewed?'

'You don't understand.'

'If it's right for you, Colin, I'm happy,' said Meg. 'I try not to be dumb, but I'm out of my depth here, I'm afraid. Will you be mother, or shall I?'