The Ghost of the Inn

The footprints I tried to follow scattered in several directions now, and had outlived their usefulness. The trail passed through a clearing that had been made artificially wider sometime in the past decade. It was wide enough to hold a small white trailer, something cheaper, not as nice as the modular houses of the main colony. Three oversized computer monitors, blinked with activity, fed from a pair of expensive-looking laptops set on a folding card table. An open bottle of Johnny Walker was set neatly on top of a shelf packed with arcane but modern textbooks. Under one last row of handwritten times and numbers, someone had added in strikingly larger letters, an ominous, stand-alone paragraph. S and S are