The cold coming off the central pedestal hit Julian like a wall of frozen iron.
White plumes of liquid-nitrogen fog billowed from the circular floor grates, rolling across the black Carrara marble in thick, heavy waves. Where the vapor touched the stone, the polish cracked, screaming as the microscopic moisture inside the granite froze instantly.
Julian reached the perimeter of Deposition Booth #00, the soles of his boots crunching through brittle frost.
Through the three-inch leaded acoustic glass, the interior was a swirling blizzard of white crystals.
Clara had collapsed to her knees. Her hands were pressed flat against her chest, her fingers curled tight against the coarse wool of her sweater. Her breath was coming in short, agonizing gasps, puffing white into the frigid air before vanishing into the intake vent. Her lips were no longer merely blue -- they were the deep, bruised violet of oxygen starvation.
Beside her ear, the heavy brass armature of the 1924 Edison wax-cylinder phonograph was spinning with a frantic, chattering whine.
The sharp sapphire cutting needle dug into the black wax cylinder, spiraling inward as it recorded the last harmonic remnants of her voice.
Above the heavy bronze lintel of the booth, an acid-etched brass placard glowed with a faint, crimson backlight:
