"The pillar falls," he typed. "Trust the rhyme, not the machine."

He looked closer at the digital scroll. The Sydney poem for the day read: A golden bridge spans the gap, but the eighth pillar is cracked.

Lin leaned back, his chair creaking. He didn't play for the money; he played for the moment when the poetry of the past predicted the data of the future. As the sun began to rise over the Sydney harbor and the Hong Kong skyline faded into a gray mist, The Harbinger logged off. The map was complete, at least until the next moon rose.