Satou came back from the field at half past six, hungry as ordered, and found the command post rearranged.
The sheet sat under a glass bowl Senna had found somewhere. Freda had approved the bowl in three languages. The map table had been shoved against the wall, and Lyra sat behind the desk with the folio open and her pen moving in short square strokes. She did not look up. He knew better than to speak.
She took fifty-one minutes.
He timed it. He sat across the desk with his hands folded and did not touch the pen on the blotter, because Lyra had taken it away in the first minute with a look.
At the fifty-first she tore three pages from the folio and laid them in a row. Each had a single word at the top in her small capitals.
SAFE. BRAVE. STUPID.
"I like the labels," Satou said.
"They aren't jokes," Lyra said. "They're forecasts."
