Giles Mercer snapped.
The Chief Proofreader completely lost his mechanical composure.
Driven wild by Clara’s four-thousand-two-hundred-hertz anchor tone, Mercer’s eight articulated hands blurred across the keyboards.
His metal fingers slammed into the ninety keys of his three remaining Linotype machines.
The clatter shook the steel rafters: [CLACK-CLACK-BANG-CLATTER].
From the overhead magazines, hundreds of brass matrices dropped like a metal hailstorm.
“I am the master of this foundry!” Mercer roared through his ceiling horns.
“You think a child with a crystal radio can audit my press?” Mercer screamed.
