The power lines running up the spine of the world were four solid cylinders of oxygen-free copper, each twelve inches in width and twenty miles long.
To the high priests of the Sunken Provinces, they were the Four Golden Veins of the Dragon King.
To Giles Croft, they were four hundred massive power loads of unshielded direct-current signal lines that would turn to steam an entire county if someone dropped a bare wrench across the end-post lugs.
“Liquid helium levels holding steady at four point two Degrees of star-heat,” Master Borin reported. He peeked through the double-lens viewing port of his disappearing-filament sight fire gauge.
The dwarf stood on the end-post platform at Mile Nineteen. His copper-braided beard glowed in the dim, violet surrounding light of the upper air.
The massive empty pocket-jacketed channel pipes, lagged with six inches of tightly packed aerogel and silvered mylar sheeting, hummed with a faint, crystal-clear chime.
“End-post heat across all four power bars is minus four hundred and fifty-two Fahrenheit,” Borin continued, adjusting the sight rheostat on his fire gauge. “Pushback is zero.
Not low, mind you. Total, stone-dead zero. The electrons are gliding through without rubbing a single shoulder together.”
