"A beam of power, made of the stuff that spins within all things—the pure force of this continuum."
"You mean this thing is some kind of particle emitter—an electron or photon gun?"
"Our science need not concern itself with crudities like names, barbarian. This gun was made as a song or a poem is made—in the mind of a man who dreams weapons where another man might dream bridges ... and when the gun finds its fruition, tomorrow when Mayron expects no mightier enemy than you, then the beam will sweep that city, and when it stops Mayron's city will be a tomb for empty skins. And Man will build another First City, and those who fled shall have a place again, and—"
"Who built—who dreamed—this piece of ironmongery?" Greaves growled. "Who was the poet—you?"
"Yes! Why not? Do you think because I am an old man—"
"A heedlessly spiteful one who hasn't stopped to think."
"Stopped to think! Look!" Vigil seized the torch at the doorway and lifted it high. "Did you think I wasn't sure? That the weapon has not been tested?"
Now Greaves could see why the gun sang rather than rested in quiet patience. A Shadow hung against the far wall, supported by its out-stretched arms, its hands sunken wrist-deep in the stone. And though it jerked its legs and struggled feebly to be free, the hands remained trapped. Under the sound of the idling gun, he could distinguish a quiet, thin, whimpering.
Adelie laughed softly to herself.