The roar was so loud that sound ceased to be a sound sensation and became a physical blunt instrument.
Inside the southern canyon, men dropped their heavy tools and crouched low against the stone. They clamped their hands over their ears, their faces twisted in pain as the sound waves pounded against their chests.
The air in the gorge shook with violent pressure pulses that rattled the timber derrick guy-wires like struck guitar strings.
Wagon driver draft horses half a mile down the supply road reared in their traces, whinnying in sheer sound terror.
One thousand pounds of overload steam per minute was screaming through the stuck disc of Valve Number Two.
At that speed, the steam jet was carrying away sixty million BTUs of heat energy every hour. Energy that Grey Crag needed to keep twenty-five thousand people from freezing to death in their beds. Worse, the high-speed blow was beginning to wire-draw the stellite valve seat, cutting tiny channels through the hardened metal that would permanently destroy the multi-ton casting.
Sister Teresa and Captain Kenneth Drake worked with practiced emergency speed along the canyon rim.
Teresa tore strips of clean wool bandage, dipping them in melted beeswax to distribute to the workers as impromptu ear-plugs. Kenneth and his soldiers moved forty wagon drivers and apprentice laborers back behind the heavy granite blast stone retaining walls. That kept the outer edge clear of anyone without protective gear.
