“I’m asking for a limited sink,” Mara said. “With clear stopping temperatures.”
The council stood in the pump hall’s long room. The motion was on the guild’s screen with its blank. Mara’s sheet was still in her hand, the stop temperature on it in her writing, held up to the lens a moment ago.
“Before I ask,” Mara said, “I’m going to read you the measurements. In order. All of them.” She left her sheet where it was. She had the figures in her head; she had been living with them for an hour. “Then I’ll tell you what I’m promising. And I won’t promise anything the measurements don’t support.”
She read them.
The shortfall. In kilowatts. In minutes. The lattice’s bow, from the three real sensors. The time before the bow passed its limit at this flow: under an hour. The basin’s volume, from the guild’s plan. Its east half’s temperature, from the auditor’s logs, with the two years of slow warming. The drinking limit. The stop temperature, from Eshel’s working and Sen’s check.
And the forty minutes. The time the east half could take the shortfall before it reached the stop.
She read each one with its unit. In order. The council listened.
