"Now, many is the philosophickal Mind,— including my own,— convinced that rapid motion through the air is possible along and above certain invisible straight Lines, crossing the earthly land?scape, particularly in Britain, where they are known as Ley-lines. Any number of devout enthusiasts, annual Stonehenge and Ave-bury Pilgrims, Quacks, Mongers, Bedlamites,— each has his tale of real flights over the countryside, above these Ley-lines. Withal, 'tis possible to transfer from one of them to another, and thus in theory travel to the furthest reaches of the Kingdom, without once touching the Earth. Something is there, that permits it. No one knows what it is, tho' thousands speculate.
"Here went we off upon the most prodigious such Line yet attempted,— in America, where undertakings of its scale are possible,— astronomically precise,— carefully set prisms of Oolite,— the Master-valve of rose Quartz, at the eastern Termi?nus. Any Argument from Design, here, must include a yearning for Flight, perhaps even higher and faster than is customary along Ley-lines we know. I try not to wonder. I must wonder. Whenever the Surveyors separate, they run into Thickets, Bogs, bad Dreams,— united, they pursue a ride through the air, they are link'd to the stars, to that inhuman Precision, and are deferr'd to because of it, tho' also fear'd and resented—"
- Wicks Cherrycoke, Spiritual Day-Book
March is snowy and frozen, clear nights are rare, and the Surveyors need
ev'ry one they can get for Azimuth observations to find out the exact Direction westward, to strike off in. Ev'rything upon the Ground, by April, as they're about to begin the West Line, must be sighted thro' a haze of green Resurrection.
"There'll be more out there than Stars to gaze at," says Mr. Harland, who's hired on as an Instrument-Bearer at five shillings a day. "Over Susquehanna,— once you've cross'd the York to Baltimore Road,— you'll see."
"I grew up west of that Road," adds Mrs. Harland, "and he ain't just hummin' 'Love in a Cottage,' either. Tis not for ev'rybody,— I know I lit East as soon's I was tall enough to cry in the right Uncle's ale-can, and it's also how I met the Wild Ranger here, who's never been west of Elk Creek. Maybe it's not even for you, Johnny."
"Tho' we do understand your Sentiments, Ma'am," Mason advises, "we are legally restrain'd from intervening in anyone's family business."
"Ah well, too bad, tried my best, fate is fate, Lord'll provide," she car?ols, bustling back into the House.
"Took it awfully well, I thought," says Mason.
"Maybe not," John Harland shaking his head as he follows her in. "Better go see."
"She never actually said she wanted him off the Crew," Dixon notes.
"It's what she meant. You have to understand them, Dixon, they've this silent language, that only men of experience speak at all fluently."
"Then why is it I've lost count of how many of my evenings tha've ruin'd, with thy talk of Cannibalism, or Suicide, or Bickering among the Whigs... ? anything, but what 'they' wish to hear?"
"Unannounc'd blow."
Robert Boggs comes running by with fifty-weight of Harness hanging from each Shoulder. "Some Stranger over there by the Monument, acting peculiar." Off he runs again.
They go to see,— and there he is, up in the corner of Harland's field, curiously prostrated before the chunk of Rose Quartz where cross the Lat?itude of the south Edge of Philadelphia, and the Longitude of the Post Mark'd West,— the single Point to which all work upon the West Line (and its eastward Protraction to the Delaware Shore) will finally refer. All about, in the Noontide, go Waggoners and Instrument-Bearers in Commo?tion, preparing for the Translation south to Mr. Bryant's Field, and the
 Post Mark'd West. Swifts come out in raiding-parties, but avoid the lumi?nous Stone,— Dogs wait at what they've learn'd is a safe distance from it.
"Quite powerful," when they have coax'd him back at last to their own regime of Light, " - where'd you boys find this one? Whoo-ee!" He has been trying to find what in his Calling is known as the "Ghost," another Crystal inside the ostensible one, more or less clearly form'd. ' 'Tis there the Pictures appear.. .tho' it varies from one Operator to the next,— some need a perfect deep Blank, and cannot scry in Ghost-Quartz. Others, before too much Clarity, become blind to the other World...my own Crystal,"— he searches his Pockets and produces a Hand-siz'd Specimen with a faint Violet tinge,— "the Symmetries are not always easy to see...here, these twin Heptagons...centering your Vision upon their Common side, gaze straight in,—
"Aahhrrhh!" Mason recoiling and nearly casting away the crystal.
"Huge, dark Eyes?" the Scryer wishes to know.
"Aye.—  Who is it?" Mason knows.
"The Face I see is a bit more friendly,— but then 'twould have to be, wouldn't it, or I'd be in some other line of Work."
His name is Jonas Everybeet, and in the time he travels with the Party, he will locate, here and there across the Land, Islands in Earth's Magnetic Field,— Anomalies with no explanation for being where they are,— other than conscious intervention by whoever or whatever was here before the Indians. "Anyone's Guess what they're for. And then your own very long Row of Oolite Shafts. Perfectly lin'd up with the Spin of the Earth. Suggestive, anyhow."
"Of what?"
"Think of Mr. Franklin's Armonica. Rather than a Finger circling upon the stationary Rim of a Glass, the Finger keeps still, whilst the Rim rotates. As long as there is movement between the two, a note is produc'd. Similarly, this Oolite Array, at this Latitude, is being spun along at more than seven hundred miles per hour,— spun thro' the light of the Sun, and whatever Medium bears it to us. What arises from this? What Music?"
Ev'ryone has a Point of View they wish to persuade the Surveyors to. "Sometimes you're the Slate," Mason observes, "sometimes you're the Chalk.”
"Eeehh!" Dixon frowns. "And here again is that bothersome Crimp, O'Rooty." The Body-jobber offering them his Services, can arrange, he declares, for "any Work-force, at any level of skill, anywhere you want, when you want them. For instance I imagine you'll be needing some axmen. Hey? Do I know this Business? First thing to decide is how much you want to spend,— local Lads at three and six per Diem, or, for what prices out to but a few farthings more,"— picks up a couple of Powder-Horns, places them either side of his head,— "Scandinavians! yes, the famous Swedish Loggers, each the equal of any ten Axmen these Colonies may produce. Finest double-bit Axes, part of the Package, life?time Warranty on the Heads, seventy-two-hour replacement Policy, cus-tomiz'd Handle for each Axman, for 'Bjorn may not swing like Stig, nor Stig like Sven,' as the famous Timothy Tox might say,— Swedish Steel here, secret Processes guarded for years, death to reveal them, take you down a perfect swathe of Forest, trimm'd and cleared, fast as you're likely to chain the distance.—  Parts of a single great Machine,— human muscle and stamina become but adjunct to the deeper realities of Steel that never needs Sharpening, never rusts,—
"Oh, come, Sir!" the Surveyors exclaim together.
"So then take but one, take Stig here, on a trial basis only, pay what you think he's worth, if you don't like him, send him back.—
Next in line behind O'Rooty comes a "Developer," or Projector of Land-Schemes.
"Kill him," advises Dixon, before anyone can get in a word. Mason risks a quick lateral Squint, but can neither see nor smell any sign of Intoxication. "And do it sooner rather than later, as it only gets more dif?ficult with time."
Since early in their acquaintance, the two have learn'd to mutter together so as to remain unheard beyond a Pipe-stem's Length. The Pro?jector, devotedly binocular and far too brisk, moves in an industrious Hop from one foot to the other, back and forth. "This is someone you know?" Mason not yet all that alarm'd.
"In general only. But work'd for enough of them, didn't I. Not proud of m'self for it. Needed the money." So abridg'............