"Well, slap this on him first," Ethridge says, and hands over a wrist watch. Shaftoe hefts it and whistles. It’s a beaut: a Swiss chronometer in solid uranium, its jewel-laden movement throbbing away like the heart beat of a small mammal. He swings it on the end of its wristband, made in cunningly joined armor plates. It is heavy enough to stun a muskellunge.