Jesper shakes his head. “It’s a cross-section of a sphere,” she says. “A circle. No ends.”
“Right now, yes,” says Tamarind, then raises the walkie-talkie. “Beedeep. We’re under it, are you getting the coordinates? Beedeep.”
“You don’t actually have to say ‘beedeep,'” says Jesper.
Tamarind pretends not to hear him, or maybe really doesn’t, as the helicopter swings into view. The giant mirror strapped to its belly flashes.
“Sometimes the little bastards give us luck,” Tamarind shouts. “Sometimes we take it.”
The chopper crosses the rainbow and reflects it down, into the ground at their feet: light, roaring, gold.