“Don’t tell me what the transporter ought to do,” Iven said. “Tell me what it did to you.”
Maud looked at him across the little operator’s cab. She had a strip of red cloth tied around her right wrist and a face so deeply lined that he could not have guessed her age within twenty years. Outside the window, the Crosswind’s empty platform stood on its sloping track. Weeds had rooted in the coal dust beneath the landing.
“It asked for more drive when I was braking,” she said.
“Every time?”
“No. That’s the bastard of it.”
Vela, the cooperative’s shift engineer, made a small approving sound behind him. Rysa stood at the cab door with the old job sheets, their edges softened by too many examinations.
“What did you feel first?” Iven asked.
“The tension handle kicked. Then the platform pulled. Then the governor caught up and fought it.”
