With the fifth and final strike of the lead plummet, Qiao Ming grounded the sound circuit.
He brought the soft metal face down onto the center of the datum benchmark with a firm, deadened blow that acted as a sound damper. The sixty-cycle striker hum was absorbed by the mass of the lead. The energy in the foundation chimney pipes began its slow, exponential decay, streaming outward into the land-wide shelf where it faded away harmlessly into the cold deeps.
The three hundred statues along the Grand Row of pillars gradually quieted their voices.
The four-hundred-and-thirty-two-cycle roar softened to a rich, warm drone, then to a gentle, musical hum. Then it finally returned to the eternal, peaceful murmur that had characterized the nave for three thousand years. The standing waves dissolved. The suspended dust settled softly onto the flat stone slabs like fine grey snow.
Qiao Ming brought his Folded brass star-compass to his eye, measuring the leftover ringing tones.
The instrument checked that the damping was complete: leftover hum was locked at four hundred and thirty-two point zero four hertz. All destructive interference was removed. The load-bearing health of the sector was flawless.
He leaned against his ash stave, letting out a long, shuddering breath out that misted in the cold amber light. His oilskin coat was soaked with salt spray and sweat. His left arm was throbbing with fierce, sharp pain from the braced bone. His palms were black with magnetic iron silt and animal fat.
