He clicked it.

The cursor on the screen of Jan's memory stopped blinking.

Searching. Czech hunter in. All categories.

"You found the query," the man said in perfect, archaic Czech. "Most people type 'jobs' or 'apartment for rent' . You typed 'hunter' . In all categories."

Then the ground hummed.

Jan waited. The wind carved small spirals of salt dust.

Three days later, he stood on the edge of the Salar de Atacama. The moon was indeed a thin, pale sliver—a thread of garlic, hanging over the white crust of lithium and salt that stretched to a horizon that seemed to curve the wrong way.