A tall silhouette stood motionless beside the spinning steel kelly bushing of the rotary table, coated in drifting white powder.
The figure wore a heavy, rain-darkened wool trench coat that hung stiffly in the freezing salt wind.
“Someone is standing right by the drill-string!” Mac Cole yelled through his respirator speech diaphragm, leveling his brass pry-bar.
“Hold your position, Mac!” Julian Vance commanded, his boots crunching into the four-inch drifts of Clause-Pulp.
“He was not on the rig manifest,” Lin Mei whispered through her mask, her flashlight beam trembling against the man’s shoulders.
“Doctor Corvo, do you recognize his coat?” Julian asked, keeping his hands open and low.
“That is municipal civil service wool from nineteen-ninety-six,” Doctor Corvo replied, his voice tense through the Draeger filter.
“The cut of the lapels matches the uniform of the City Inspection Bureau,” Corvo added.
