The crew prepared to bolt Sleeve Beta to the iron discharge pipe rim. Then, Sister Merrow stepped onto the staging deck and laid her heavy ash cane directly across the canvas bundle. Her sharp eyes were fixed on Jo Saye’s hands, which were trembling wildly. A rapid, uncontrollable flutter in the wrists caused by ten minutes of absorbing sixty-cycle shock waves through the timber frame.
“Sit down, Jo Saye,” Merrow commanded. She pointed her cane toward a dry pine bench placed against the sheltered wall.
“Sister Merrow, please,” Jo protested, trying to steady her hands against her apron. “The second wave is coming round High Tor. I need to guide the posture of the pipe rim bolts.”
“Dima knows how to turn a wrench, Jo,” Merrow replied. She took the older woman firmly by the elbow and steering her to the bench. “And Rob knows how to hold a brass nut. You have fifteen minutes of mandated rest under Section Four of your own Courtesy Charter. If you drop a socket into that discharge water chute because your fingers have gone numb, you delay the entire city by an hour. Sit down, drink this hot peppermint broth, and let Master Fen and the lads do their work.”
