The neutralization of Tiers Three and Four was a rhythmic, painful marathon of cold mud, heavy timber, and choking tension.
Hour after hour, working by the emerald moss-light, the team hauled the hardwood boxes from the drowned racks. Each crate, weighing one hundred and eighty pounds, had to be floated across the flooded magazine on cedar rafts, lifted onto the derrick sling. Then he hoisted through the narrow sally port to the surface.
On the floating staging deck outside, Tomas presided over the neutralization vats.
Every single crate was opened under a nonstop spray of fresh rainwater to prevent any volatile vapors from igniting. Tomas used a spark-proof bronze draw-knife to slice through the swollen wicker bindings, exposing the ten glass spheres resting inside.
Each eight-inch sphere was inspected with split brass measuring tongs. If the glass showed any hairline fractures or acid leaching, it was lifted with sheepskin-lined tongs and underwater right away into a forty-gallon firkin of dense chalk slurry.
Young Darrow stood beside the vats with a full-body VR heat gauge, calling out the heat readings every two minutes.
“Vat Number Three: sixty-two degrees,” Darrow reported, his voice steadying as the routine took hold. “Vat Number Four: sixty-eight degrees. Heat rising six degrees as the lime absorbs the acid cry.”
