The screams inside the transmitter gallery did not stop.
They flattened.
The sound shifted from human agony into the dry, tearing whistle of a high-pressure line bleeding into a vacuum.
Julian planted his feet on the icy grating outside the quartz window.
The four-hundred-foot catwalk shuddered under the buffeting gale, but his boots held fast against the steel diamond plate.
Through the heavy glass, the interior of Level Four was bathed in blinding violet luminescence.
The 89.9 FM standing wave was bouncing off the copper-lined walls, trapped in a closed acoustic loop.
In his headset, Clara drew in a sharp breath.
