The pilot would not leave on the lift keeper’s first signal.
Otha Brail stood at the stern of Low Lantern, watching a strip of pale cloth beneath the lower basin’s warning mast. The cloth hung still while a higher flag moved steadily east.
“Not yet,” she said.
The lift keeper looked down from the receiving frame.
“We’ve got the water turn.”
“I’ve got the air.”
Tavin, standing beside her, looked from one flag to the other.
“What’s the lower layer doing?”
