The check hatch opened into the greasy, choking crawlspace beneath Storage Vat Three.
Bram Ash climbed up through the square hole first. His teeth was clenched so hard that blood seeped from his lip as he hauled his heavy bulk onto the unpainted cedar floor beams. His right shoulder screamed with agony, the shattered acromion bone grinding against the collarbone. But he refused to cry out. He pulled his legs through the opening and collapsed onto his belly across two twelve-inch timber beams, his chest heaving with shallow, whistling gasps.
Len climbed up beside him, his movements economical, silent, and balanced. His left arm was tucked firmly inside his coat. His right hand gripped an iron support bracket that anchored the massive steel stone stand of the storage metal tube above them.
The air inside the depot was hot, thick, and reeking. It smelled of heated sheep fat, pine resin, whale grease. The sharp, chemical bite of sulfur-copper additives used to stabilize town illuminants against cold-clotting. The heat streaming downward from the iron bottom of Vat Three was ninety degrees, baking the sweat onto their faces in greasy, salt-crusted streaks.
Len peered through the two-inch gaps between the floor timbers.
