Caldris came down from the door to the platform’s edge and stood beside Lisan with her slate, and gave the order in the same even voice she had used for everything.
“The official quench will proceed,” she said. “On the official signal. The guards will take their stations.”
The guards took their stations. There were four of them in the drum now: two at the walkway’s end, one by the cradle alcove, one beside the control room’s lift. Post 4 was upstairs, at the control room, by the quench panel. Through the intercom on the cradle’s rail Mara could hear him read the official clock aloud, the green numerals counting down toward the slot. On the drum’s own small display, set into the platform’s rail where the smith could see it from the cradle, the blue line rose and fell. Clean. Perfect. A fraction ahead.
Orison spoke from the platform’s speaker, low. “The cold feed is ready. The measured cold, from the shadow chamber, through the valve in the lowest chamber.” A pause. “The valve is holding at a quarter. I believe a quarter is enough for a quench. I believe that is why you set it there.”
It was. Mara had worked it out on the night she patched it: a quarter open, low pressure only, enough for one measured pulse of cold at a time. It left nothing to spare. It was enough.
