Julian Vance hit the upper platform with both boots.
The oak deck shuddered under his weight. Beside him, Elena stayed low, her right hand braced against the cold iron pedestal of the lectern.
The Bogen decibel meter on the center pillar read twenty-seven point eight decibels.
Matron Bell did not stop typing.
Her nickel-alloy fingers moved with terrifying speed. The round bakelite keys rattled in their steel slots, clattering at two hundred words per minute. Letters hammered against the dual-color cloth ribbon in a blur of mechanical motion.
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack!
Every key lever drove a steel bar forward against the rubber platen. Forty-three bars rose and fell like tiny scythes. Only Strike-Bar Number Four sat motionless in the center of the comb, held rigid by Clara’s silver Parker pen.
Behind the ribbon, the carriage moved across the frame, notch by notch.
