The liquid silver column in the main drain tube barometer didn’t drop by inches.
It plunged by four full hands in less than seven minutes.
Inside its hardened glass sleeve, the liquid metal gurgled and hissed until the brass float rattled against the bottom collar.
Across the high watching gallery of Haven-Hold, twenty-four barographs began chattering all at once.
Their clockwork drums spun at double speed. Steel styluses gouged deep, jagged furrows into smoked paper.
“Air pressure down one hundred and fifty millibars across the northern quadrants,” Giles Croft said. He rested his hand against the dark wood drafting rail. “Tropospheric shear is exceeding two hundred knots. That’s not seasonal weather.”
Before his left eye, an amber pane of tracking data flickered into existence against the frosted window glass.
“Look at this tracking data,” Giles muttered.
