The emergency running theater was lit up by three battery-powered halogen razor-sharp lamps clamped directly to the rusted ceiling pipes of the vaulted chamber.
The running table was not made of stainless steel, zinc, or enameled iron.
It was the dorsal back shell of Titus.
The great terrapin had set himself directly beneath the central drainage pylon, his massive columnar legs braced in the shallow water, his body leveled with total stone-built care. Across his flat, moss-strewn upper dark rock armor scales, Toby and Dr. Calder had stretched four layers of sterile green razor-sharp linen, pinned down at the outer edge with brass razor-sharp clamps.
For six hours, Titus had not shifted so much as a fraction of a tiny fraction of an inch.
His breathing had been slowed to a barely noticeable one breath every four minutes. His earth-shaking marrow took in the micro-shakes of the passing artillery rumbles overhead, transforming his living body into an unmoving, shock-dampened granite stone stand upon which Arthur Vance operated.
Arthur stood on a rubber step-stool at the terrapin’s flank, his arms scrubbed to the elbows in carbolic iodine, wearing a fresh rubberized razor-sharp apron and clear sight goggles beneath his Zeiss-Vanguard monocle.
