The main hall of the tram depot had ceased to be an indoor street and had become the mouth of a blast fire. White, high-pressure vapor rolled along the corrugated iron ceiling in dense, tumbling billows, obscuring the rafters and dropping a greasy, hot moisture that coated the brick walls like lard.
The smell was choking. Boiled stone sulfur, decaying hemp heat padding, and the sharp, ozone tang of short-circuiting spark lines. Ten paces ahead of Len, an emergency copper circuit box mounted on an iron pillar let out a sharp, spitting hiss. A bright turquoise spark leaped between the copper terminals, lighting up the fog with a sickly, dramatic glare before the fuse wire melted in a puff of white smoke. The overhead lantern died instantly, its glass globe filling with condensing steam.
“Keep your head below the handrail!” Doma shouted back over her shoulder, her voice muffled by the wet wool rag she had tied across her nose and mouth. “The steam gathers in the arch crowns! Breathe through your teeth!”
Len followed her down the wooden service incline, his boots slipping on the slick, slime-coated treads. His Surefoot improvement kept his ankles rigid, adjusting his balance with tiny, reflex muscular twitches every time his worn soles hit a greasy patch of coal silt. His braced left arm was tucked firmly beneath his heavy woolen coat, protected from the boiling mist. But his right hand moved along the iron guide rail. He felt the violent, rhythmic shudder of…
