The heat coming off the Linotype crucibles struck Julian’s face like a heavy wool blanket soaked in boiling oil.
He didn’t step backward.
Julian kept his boots planted firmly on the oil-stained concrete of Sub-Level 4 as the hoist gate rattled open.
“Hold the perimeter line,” Julian said quietly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling gantry. “Don’t spread out across the bay.”
“Holding the line right here,” Mac replied, gripping his four-foot iron pry-bar across both knees in a low defensive crouch.
“Look at the ceiling track,” Mac muttered, never taking his eyes off the gantry. “That thing moves faster than an electric winch.”
“It’s a counterbalanced monorail rig,” Lin Mei whispered, adjusting the strap of her Underwood typewriter. “It runs on three-phase municipal current from the river substation.”
“Can you cut the power, Mei?” Mac asked.
