The Crossing

He held the summons for the Crossing; the crystalline tablet that told him the place and time of departure had been delivered to him this night at the Dusk meal.  He would travel there alone using one of the temporary transport pods, the surface conditions were forecast to be a little difficult, but not impassable.  Although it was fashionable these days to be cynical about the Chorus, he believed the information they disseminated was generally pretty accurate, and they had been talking again about how many more people were called for the Crossings nearest the Rotation End.  He guessed that the Gardea would make every effort to ensure that people on the way to Cross would reach their departure points, as it would not look good if the Chorus picked up on procedural or individual Gardemans blunders and sang about them to the populace.

He set out early though, mindful that the conditions were not ideal, and indeed the journey there was slow, a bit slower even than he had anticipated as the pod coped with slipping against and dragging along the surface, intermittently abrasive and ice smooth.  He was soothed on the journey with music provided by the transfer pod, soaring and ascendant, swooping music to fill his thoughts and keep them from drifting to the impending Crossing, although as the journey wore on he began to imagine the others travelling on parallel or converging routes.  The unsettling image popped in his mind; of pliant dexterous tentacles reaching out and pulling pods and people towards a central maw.  "Music, music, lift me away from the scurryings of my under-mind," he prayed.