He spins a dial, punches up numbers, now we pass through her face head-on, tip of nose to arch of atlas. We're discussing the concept artifact: the machine tolerates no movement, or else the image breaks up, blurs, becomes a smudge, scalloped waves of dust, or, most amusing to him, "smoke out the ears" -- the artifact of bloodrace in the carotid -- the only sign she is alive lying so still on her back, wound in a sheet, strapped to the sled shoved deep into the magnetic oven.
^^^	<---|--->	<|>