For two decades he has torn apart dead frontier colonies, and each one died of something he could dig up: a bad well, a burst dam, a hillside that came down in the dark. Every one except the farm town where half the town slid sideways across flat ground overnight and stopped as neatly as a train at a platform.
Six years later, the believers who stayed behind send for a man with a digging machine. They have a god buried under their broken town, and they want it dug out.
They drink rust scraped from its hide until their mouths turn orange. They wrap their hands in leather and keep clear of him. Their deacon wears his own severed hands on a cord. And every dusk, while the faithful watch from the banks, the outsider must kneel in the pit and lay his bare palm on the black metal. It is warm under the frozen dirt, and warmer each night. Every night afterward, the ground shivers, sooner and harder.
He blames the digging. Then his scanner shows him what lies beneath the town, and how far past the horizon it runs. The faithful asked for a digging machine. What they need is his bare hands, and they have no intention of letting him leave.
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