The wind made the gate heavy without breaking it.
Iven felt the difference as soon as the keeper put the long handle in his hand. The hinge moved freely. The latch met its socket. Outside, a hard stream of mineral dust pressed against the gallery’s outer doors, finding every crack and whitening the threshold.
“Three at a time,” the keeper said. “Then the inner gate closes before the outer opens again.”
Dema’s party waited inside the approach shelter while a small northbound pack group came through from the other side. The gallery crossed an exposed cut. Its enclosed walking space was safe to use during the current dust front, but only if the doors were worked in sequence instead of both being flung open by impatient travellers.
The five hundred and thirteenth day’s wind had arrived on the warning board before it reached the roof.
Dema had accepted the hold. The keeper had asked for a strong extra hand at the inner gate while his crew managed the animals. Iven had offered the useful work rather than pace beneath the awning wishing the weather were more impressed by his departure date.
Behind the little changing screen, he put aside the road set and seated plate, filter, ratchet and fan.
