He stopped for the night in a steep-walled hollow and built a small fire of dead moss and grass to ward off the chill that came with dark. He called the others, thinking first of Schroeder so that Tip would transmit to Schroeder’s mocker:

“Steve?”

“Here,” Tip answered, in a detectable imitation of Schroeder’s voice. “No luck.”

He thought of Gene Taylor and called, “Gene?”

There was no answer and he called Chiara. “Tony⁠—could you see any of Gene’s route today?”

“Part of it,” Chiara answered. “I saw a herd of unicorns over that way. Why⁠—doesn’t he answer?”

“No.”

“Then,” Chiara said, “they must have got him.”

“Did you find anything today, Tony?” he asked.