The backup boiler of the void-mining rig was hissing with dangerous, irregular gasps.
Through the small service wicket of Entry hall 349, Qiao Ming observed the clockwork detritus left behind by the raiders in the outer gatehouse. The hired blades, in their panicked flight from the chimney pipes, had abandoned their main air-powered air pump. A two-ton metal tube of riveted boiler-plate mounted on an oak carriage, fueled by volatile spirit-oil that was burning unchecked in its firebox.
The pressure needle on the air pump’s brass gauge was quivering against the red datum mark at fourteen sea-weights. If the steam pressure rose another two bar, the boiler would detonate, showering the outer pillared hall in shrapnel that would permanently scar the ancient hard speckled rock columns and shatter the quartz viewing ports of the Great Iron Arch.
A land-mapper did not permit preventable explosions in his sector.
Qiao Ming unlatched the service wicket, a heavy bronze door three feet wide, hinged on oil-greased trunnions. He didn’t step fully into the outer hall. He remained anchored on the inner threshold, his bare feet gripping the familiar dark rock doorstep.
In his right hand, he carried his long-handled hook-knife—a curved blade of hardened spring-steel used by water-scribes to sever fouled sounding lines and clear tangled kelp from intake grates. In his left hand, he carried a bucket of cold salt water.
