Fifteen seconds before one o’clock in the morning, the heavy bronze staging pawls at the fifty-foot Upper Dry-Dock Collar clanked into their final pre-drop countdown position.
CLANK-HISS.
The brass guide-shoes clamped onto the vertical rails with a sharp, metallic tension that hummed through the empty dry-dock cavern below. Beneath their boots, the diamond-plate deck of Freight Elevator #00 vibrated as the upper bulkhead lock held the cage poised fifty feet above the -100 ft gravitational inversion boundary and the upside-down reception hall of Sub-Level 1.
Through the lower shaft inspection periscope and the open floor grating, the inverted reception tier of Loss Prevention gleamed below them like an upside-down submarine bay. Flickering sixty-hertz fluorescent troffers hummed along the inverted ceiling-floor below, casting cold, washed-out shadows across polished green linoleum tiles bolted securely to the underside of Sub-Level 1.
Bolted to the rusted iron wall of the elevator cage, right beside Mac’s elbow, was a vintage brushed-aluminum intercom box: EXECUTONE 400 -- MUNICIPAL INTERCOM STATION.
CLICK-HISS.
A burst of harsh static crackled through the perforated aluminum grille. The white noise sounded like dry sand being poured across an open microphone.
Julian drew in a breath to speak.
