Julian Vance did not rush his advance toward the pit. He kept his boots planted squarely on the frosted tiles.
He moved along the edge of the conveyor with the steady cadence of a senior clerk inventorying damaged stock.
Ten feet ahead on the black rubber belt, Director Wardell Kray lay in a heap of smoking brass and shattered glass.
The director’s left pantograph scissor-leg was bent backward at a ninety-degree angle, leaking black hydraulic fluid across the ribs.
His head was sputtering thick, sulfurous fumes as the broken Recordak projector cycled its internal transport gears.
“Watch your footing on that hydraulic slick, Julian,” Elena warned from two paces behind him. “That fluid contains toxic mineral esters.”
“I see it, Elena,” Julian replied, stepping carefully over the pool of oil.
“How is the motor below us behaving, Mac?” Clara asked, limping forward while leaning on Elena’s shoulder.
