The shredder drums in the high rafters finished their work with a dry, papery hiss.
Twenty-two point one decibels.
Tiny flecks of uninked wood pulp drifted down through the green light of the banker’s lamps, settling like cold confetti across the shoulders of the students in Row Ten. Sub-Proctor Silas was gone, his voided authority converted into thirty ounces of sterile, shredded cellulose.
On the front brick wall sixty yards ahead, the projected image of Julian Vance’s 1998 Senior Invigilator Seal remained blazing in brilliant cobalt light.
High on the central podium, Matron Bell’s porcelain mask was illuminated by the sapphire glare. Her four brass cervical rings clicked three times, trying to drive her chin down toward the keys of the 1998 Underwood typewriter.
She raised her right gloved hand, her stiff fingers curving into an iron claw to strike the master override key.
CLICK-WHIR.
A sharp, mechanical interlock tripped inside the typewriter’s cast-iron base. A solenoid locked the carriage in place. The round bakelite keys seized, refusing to depress even a sixteenth of an inch.
