The first fifteen minutes of the meeting revealed the sharp, certain friction of three distinct skilled temperaments.
Ada Morland wanted decisions stated right away in black and white: ‘Tell me the exact pressure threshold on Gate Two, Pella. Don’t give me ranges. Give me the PSI where the bronze yields.’
Imran Bell right away countered with exact nuance. ‘We can’t treat the threshold as a static number, Ada. The limestone heat is fluctuating between thirty-two and thirty-eight degrees. That changes the stretch of the bedrock by eight percent. We have to work with probability halls, not single points.’
Jo Saye interrupted both of them. They dropped her heavy leather tool pouch onto the table with a loud clatter. ‘Before you two start arguing calculus, where can I put my ham sandwich so Merrow’s tea steam doesn’t make the bread soggy? And who checked the floor anchors on the winch frame? If the anchors pull out, your probability hall won’t stop twenty tons of oak from crushing the apprentices.’
Pella sat back, resisting the urge to referee every comment. She realized that their differences were not a defect. They were the strength of the team. Ada saw the pressure. Imran saw the environment. Jo saw the iron and the bread. ‘Ada commands the valves,’ Pella said, laying her hand on the table. ‘Imran commands the tracking data and the messenger route. Jo commands the sleeves and the stops. I hold the ledger. Now let’s look at the chairs.’
