The air-powered mail chute in the central motor pool coughed with a sharp, high-pressure hiss. A heavy brass delivery canister shot out of the iron tube, struck the wire basket with a violent rattle. Then it rolled onto the grease-stained zinc workbench.
Toby Mallow snatched it before the metal casing stopped shaking.
“It’s here,” Toby whispered, his voice trembling as he twisted the knurled brass cap. His glasses were smudged with diesel soot, and his ink-stained fingers fumbled against the locking threading. “The dispatch rider just dropped the circuit seal. Arthur, please tell me he assigned you to the depot. Even the sorting depot in Sector 6 has a roof!”
Arthur Vance didn’t answer right away. He was standing beside a stack of wooden ammunition crates. He wiped a film of preservative grease from a set of razor-sharp bone hooks with a clean lint-free cloth. At his feet, Grimm lay flat across the concrete floor, his chin propped over Arthur’s worn leather boot cuffs. The hound’s dark ears twitched toward the clatter of wrenches in the repair bays. But his body remained relaxed, his breathing deep and slow.
Inside Arthur’s duster, Pip poked his crested head out from the collar. The little raptor chittered softly, clicking his black bill twice before hopping down to Arthur’s forearm. He ruffled his golden covert feathers, stretched his left wing until the carbon-heavy main quills fanned into a dazzling metal arc. Then he gave Arthur’s thumb an affectionate, inquisitive nip.
