The paste came off the sample plate in a dark, greasy curl.
Fera Noll held it up on the end of her scraper, then lowered it into the evidence dish. Beside the dish lay the brake lining she had removed from an ordinary discarded unit. The lining was dry. The treated sample shone faintly under the lamp.
“Packing preservative?” Jora asked.
“Not on a working face.”
“Would a careless packer know that?”
“Anyone paid to service these should.”
Fera put down the scraper. She had been the night maintainer when Iven arrived with the guide shoe, and had stayed until the cartridge was sealed and a relief worker accepted the station. Now, on the morning of the four hundred and seventy-sixth day, she looked as though she would much rather be asleep than repeating something so basic.
Jora thanked her and told her to go home after the statement was read back.
