Tovesh put the string-handled file where Iven could see it.
“Best one,” he said.
“I remember.”
“I am helping you remember.”
The local wright had already opened the covered bench. On the morning of day seven hundred and fifty-six, its clean boards held the dismantled drive, the two spare rack teeth and a bronze sleeve from the maintenance store. Beside them lay the old broken parts, retained until the new assembly worked.
Iven took the sleeve, checked its dimensions and smiled.
Enough sound metal.
That was a pleasant beginning to a job.
