The wind screamed across the catwalk like a jet engine.
Four hundred feet below Julian’s boots, the black Atlantic hurled itself against the granite base of the headland. Massive whitecaps exploded into spray, visible for split seconds under the rhythmic crimson sweep of the aviation beacons.
The diamond-plate grating beneath his feet shuddered with every wave impact. Violent mechanical vibrations hummed up through the steel lattice of the mast.
Two inches of reinforced quartz glass stood between Julian and the warm interior of Level 4.
On the other side of the glass, the air was still, filtered, and warm. The polished mahogany paneling of the transmitter gallery gleamed in the amber light of the Continental 816R final amplifier. The water-cooled tetrode tubes hissed softly inside their lead jackets, glowing like small captive suns.
Director Evelyn Cross stood three feet from the window.
She had not taken off her charcoal cashmere coat. Her silver hair was pinned into an immaculate chignon, and a silver crane brooch--the insignia of the Uptown Spire Founders--gleamed on her left lapel. She held a silver cigarette holder in her left hand, thin blue smoke curling toward the ceiling exhaust louvers.
Beside her, three senior Notary technicians in spotless grey lab coats monitored the exciter meters, their faces masked behind clean white respirators.
