Rush fixes her with an expression that only raggedly clings to the barest veneer of civility in a murderous, unspoken inquiry as to what the fuck.

"You solved the problem," he says, the syllables a slow scrape over a boiling exasperation. "The problem of dialing the ninth chevron." His expression contorts briefly under the pressure of a bizarrely inexplicable situation involving the woman who had, unbelievably, solved the problem to which he had devoted two years of his life. "You were informed of this. You were issued a full explanation via Jackson's insufferable tapes, correct?"