In the museum gallery, the sudden slackness on the line produced an immediate, breathless crisis. Kel Dorr ran to the window. He peeked through the rain at the empty air where the cord had hummed two seconds earlier. “Did Ada pull it, Will? Did she call a stop?”
“No,” Will Carver said, examining the frayed, cut end of the tarred rope. “There were no three tugs, and there was no nonstop pull. The rope just went dead. Something cut it in the gorge.”
“Then the line has failed,” Pella Rook announced, her voice ringing with total, cold and exact discipline. She didn’t wait for an explanation. She didn’t guess that everything was fine. She stepped to the table, took the copper uncoupling wire, and grounded it firmly against the zinc plate. “We suspend the memory transfer right now.”
“Pella, wait!” Kel pleaded, his hand hovering over the slate. “Senn was just beginning to breathe! If we ground the wire now, the Crown will tighten its grip again! We might lose fifteen minutes of progress!”
“We don’t run an uncoupling set when our signal line is dead, Kel,” Pella replied, her eyes meeting his with unbending firmness. “A slack cord is an unmonitored line. For all we know, Ada’s pipe hub has burst, or the Third Gate has jammed again. If we continue without checked tracking data, we’re running on assumption. And assumption is how Davin Sorell destroyed this city. Ground the wire, ring the fallback bells, and send a runner.”
