Mara kept arguing for acceptance.
She argued it to the bench, to the link, to the plate. The third rib lay in front of her on its timber rest with its four rods in its core and the split sheet’s trimmings in its lining. The trace was clean. The thermocouples agreed. Two joints rang clean every time, and the third rang clean four times out of six.
“It’s inside range,” she said. “Every reading we have says it’s inside range. The only thing that doesn’t is a sound I heard twice, with the graft at its lowest setting, on a bench with pumps running underneath it.” She put her hand on the rib. “We have under an hour. We accept it. We seat it. We watch it.”
On the Lorn link, Anwen said nothing. She had said her piece.
Tavin was sitting on the crate by the bench. He had not spoken since the six taps. His hammer was on the bench beside the rib, and his bandaged hand rested beside the hammer, not touching either.
He looked at her.
“If someone else brought this piece to your bench,” he said, “with the same doubtful trace. What would you say?”
