The spiral iron stairs climbed through the roof timbers of the border station into the eight-sided watching small roof-dome perched thirty feet above the cedar shingles. Up here, the full fury of the northern mountain gale tore across the zinc-coated roof with a sustained, bass roar that made the heavy timber studs vibrate like harp strings.
Through the eight multipaned glass windows, the world lay divided in two. To the north, the rolling pine ridges and frozen river valleys of the empire stretched out beneath a glorious canopy of cold stars. To the south, wedged between the jagged granite peaks of the gap, the corrugated iron roof of Rookvale lay like a slaughtered black beast, vast, silent. Then it drowned in twelve years of artificial night.
In the center of the small roof-dome stood the district sight relay mast. A heavy brass housing mounted on an iron stone stand. It carried a triple kerosene burner set behind two twenty-inch silvered curved mirrors. Connected to the front of the housing was an iron shutter assembly operated by eight hand-levers.
“The burner is charged,” the stationmaster shouted over the scream of the wind, adjusting the kerosene wicks with a brass key until three brilliant white tongues of flame filled the housing with intense light. “Curved focal length is thirty-six inches. On a clear night like this, the beam will carry twelve miles. But who are you calling on the ridge?”
