The forced pause lasted six minutes—six long, silent minutes. Meanwhile, the second mountain flood wave washed through the open water chutes and drained into the great cattle meadows south of the city. Down in the basin, Sleeve Beta continued its amazing work, bulging and weeping like an honest working animal, carrying ten thousand gallons a minute without tearing a single stitch.
Sister Merrow moved through the museum gallery with her tin teapot. It filled tin mugs with steaming chicory and handed thick wedges of caraway cheese to Kel, Corvin, and Will Carver. Nobody spoke of failure. Nobody whispered that the plan had broken. They had pulled the stop tab, the system had responded, and everyone was alive to take the next breath.
Inspector Korr Var examined his pocket watch, then looked out the window at the high overhead frame where Master Sorell’s red-hot crown-ring was beginning to smoke in the driving rain. “The upstream pool is stabilizing, Pella. The head at High Tor has dropped six inches. Sorell’s wheel is locked in Notch Twelve. But his intake water chutes are starving because the turning basin is drawing the water from below. The Crown has nothing left to pump.”
Pella took a sip of the bitter, hot chicory. She felt the strength return to her fingers. She checked the master slate: Overtime Leftover: 48m 12s · Basin Flumes Working · Senn Holding Slack. “The pause did its work, Korr,” Pella said. She rose from the bench and picking up her measuring…
