Mac’s naval brass pincer hoisted Julian straight off the catwalk floor.
With a grunt of hydraulic effort, the veteran mechanic swung Julian upward, depositing him onto the narrow pre-heat maintenance ledge four feet above the railing. The rusted angle-iron groaned under Julian’s boots. A blast of hot air hit him in the chest, smelling of scorched paper pulp, warm machine oil, and sea salt.
“I’ve got your ankles, kid!” Mac yelled up over the roar of the press flywheel.
“Lean out, but don’t drop that spool! If you take a dive into that vat, you’ll come out as five hundred copies of a morning tabloid!”
“Holding steady,” Julian said through gritted teeth. “Keep a firm grip on my left boot. The vibration up here is shaking my teeth loose.”
“Ain’t letting go of you, Chief,” Mac grunted. “Not after we hauled your backside across forty miles of open water.”
Directly in front of him, suspended from heavy steel tongs, Placard Number One swung along the conveyor rail.
The slab of wet Clause-Pulp was massive, measuring two feet by three feet, and four inches thick. Up close, Julian could see the thick cellulose fibers crisscrossing like woven hemp.
