The copper trunk line south of the Maras Ridge was glowing faint dull cherry in the dusk.
Giles Croft stood on the iron narrow high walkway of Substation Four with a chipped mug of cold chicory in his hand.
He didn’t like what he saw.
Below him, two thousand miles of heavy braided signal cable stretched across the dry scrub foothills.
The line hummed with a low, sullen drone.
Crows refused to perch on the cross-arms because their claws grew hot within five minutes.
“Look at that sag,” Giles said.
He pointed his brass-cased pocket scale at the middle span.
