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Tobias S. Buckell The door loomed over the robed assembly like the constellations at night: vast, alien, uncaring, and immeasurably ancient. At the back of the spiral, Yehin kept his head pitched to the right, his neck straining to hold his head back, so that he could try and comprehend the immensity that the procession shuffled ever slowly toward as they rotated around each other in a sea of soft, scarlet cloth. A hundred people could stand on each other’s shoulders, and not reach the great, geared far apex of the Great Door. The apex lay so far above that