As the memory uncoupling completed, the final physical surge of water backed up by Sorell’s seized platform rushed down the Third Gate bypass water chute. It slammed into Sleeve Beta with a deep, gut-deep roar that shook the timber overhead frame to its footings.
The replacement canvas metal tube, bolted down by Dima and the local apprentices, swelled to seventy-one point eight pounds of pressure. The heavy flax fabric hummed with majestic, unbending power, weeping fine mist through its double-reed backing. But the red failure seam remained perfectly straight. He held the surging torrent with twelve pounds of safety margin to spare.
Jo Saye stood on the staging deck, her hand resting lightly on the timber frame. She felt the smooth, steady shaking of the cloth. She turned to Dima with a broad, radiant smile that erased twenty years of weariness from her face. “Look at those bolts, Dima! Not a drop of oil leaking from the leather washers! You torqued them true to the thread! The sleeve is holding seventy-two pounds like an iron boiler!” Dima wiped river spray from his eyes, his chest swelling with pride. The local mechanics had taken the tools, learned the trade, and held the river.
