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“
Stay
below
this
ridge
;
the
moon
’
s
at
our
backs
and
it
’
d
show
our
movement
to
anyone
out
there
.
”
Paul
stopped
in
a
bight
of
rock
,
leaned
the
pack
against
a
narrow
ledge
.
Jessica
leaned
beside
him
,
thankful
for
the
moment
of
rest
.
She
heard
Paul
pulling
at
his
stillsuit
tube
,
sipped
her
own
reclaimed
water
.
It
tasted
brackish
,
and
she
remembered
the
waters
of
Caladan
—
a
tall
fountain
enclosing
a
curve
of
sky
,
such
a
richness
of
moisture
that
it
hadn
’
t
been
noticed
for
itself
.
.
.
only
for
its
shape
,
or
its
reflection
,
or
its
sound
as
she
stopped
beside
it
.
To
stop
,
she
thought
.
To
rest
.
.
.
truly
rest
.
It
occurred
to
her
that
mercy
was
the
ability
to
stop
,
if
only
for
a
moment
.
There
was
no
mercy
where
there
could
be
no
stopping
.
Paul
pushed
away
from
the
rock
ledge
,
turned
,
and
climbed
over
a
sloping
surface
.
Jessica
followed
with
a
sigh
.
They
slid
down
onto
a
wide
shelf
that
led
around
a
sheer
rock
face
.
Again
,
they
fell
into
the
disjointed
rhythm
of
movement
across
this
broken
land
.
Jessica
felt
that
the
night
was
dominated
by
degrees
of
smallness
in
substances
beneath
their
feet
and
hands
—
boulders
or
pea
gravel
or
flaked
rock
or
pea
sand
or
sand
itself
or
grit
or
dust
or
gossamer
powder
.
The
powder
clogged
nose
filters
and
had
to
be
blown
out
.
Pea
sand
and
pea
gravel
rolled
on
a
hard
surface
and
could
spill
the
unwary
.
Rock
flakes
cut
.
