Not one of them can stop what is coming on their own. Every one of them has something to lose.
No portraits. Each is represented by an object the book gives them.
Born in Cachoeira de Emas, in the Brazilian countryside, she learned to look at the Sun inside a shoebox — because you never look at it directly. For six years she has watched the star from the top of a Hawaiian volcano. Fifteen years ago, a reading about Mars cost her nearly everything. No one ever proved her wrong.
He grew up in Lagos, where he learned early the exact sound a hospital makes when the power fails. He built the reactor so no one else would have to learn it. He is brilliant, he is meticulous, and the safety reviews he signed are impeccable. He has a six-year-old daughter.
Twenty years taking extraordinary claims apart. A shelf of awards she turned to face the wall, the way you do when you are tired of looking at them. She knows when a story too good to be true is only that — and she knows, too, what it costs to be right too early.
She looks after the observatory's instruments the way you look after stubborn animals — she talks to them, threatens the cables, and they behave. She is the one who rebuilt the spectrometer Helena uses every night. She is the first to notice when Helena stops sleeping.
Works with Helena. Records, verifies, compares historical series, retrieves what no one else remembers. Answers exactly what was asked, with exactly the precision the data allows.