The metal stamping set sat on the edge of the steel workbench in Substation Kuiper-01. It had thirty-six hardened tool-steel dies featuring capital letters, numbers, and the cloverleaf emblem of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers.
Austin stood before a magnetic-base drill press. He wore clear safety glasses under the brim of his yellow fiberglass hard hat. In his left hand, he held a three-by-five-inch plate of sixteenth-inch thick, mirror-polished austenitic stainless steel. An aluminum guide jig clamped it tight.
With slow, measured blows of a three-pound cross-peen hammer, Austin hand-stamped each character into the plate:
*CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.*
Across the workbench stood Tie Kuang in an embroidered dark green canvas shop jacket. His laminated badge read: **CERTIFIED NATIONAL BOARD BOILER & PRESSURE VESSEL INSPECTOR (COMMISSION # 8841)**. He held a dial caliper and checked the character depth against a machinist's rule.
"Depth of impression on line three?" Austin asked, pausing with the hammer raised at eye level.
"Zero point zero one eight inches, Boss," Tie Kuang replied, squinting at the needle. "Meets Section Eight, Division One, Appendix W requirements for permanent vessel marking. Fully legible even under two coats of lead-free epoxy primer."
"Good," Austin muttered, picking up the next die. "Never rush the stamping. If you misstrike a serial number, you scrap the whole plate and start over."
Austin selected the hardened die bearing the letter **U** enclosed in the ASME four-leaf clover emblem. He positioned it in the upper-left quadrant of the plate and aligned it with a brass square. One clean, centered blow drove it home.
*THWACK.*
The completed stainless steel nameplate read in crisp, indented relief:
Standing ten paces back in his orange safety vest, former Grand Inquisitor Xuan Ming stared at the stamped metal plate. He looked at it like an ancient sacred tablet handed down from the dawn of creation.
"The Golden Plaque of Absolute Invariance," Xuan Ming whispered. His hands trembled as he clutched his yellow clipboard. "A mandate carved in cold steel that binds the void within lawful bounds! What divine scriptures taught you these runes, Master Austin?"
"It’s not divine scripture, Xuan Ming," Austin replied calmly. He wiped metal shavings off the plate with an oily rag. "It's the ASME Boiler and Pressure Vessel Code, Section Eight, Division Two. If you operate an enclosed chamber containing fifty billion Kelvin and three times ten to the twenty-fourth kilograms of mass under extreme magnetic pressure, you don't wing it. You certify the vessel. You stamp the plate. And you file Form U-One-A with the National Board."
"Form... U-One-A?" Xuan Ming repeated, blinking in bewilderment.
"Manufacturer's Data Report for Pressure Vessels," Austin explained, pointing with his hammer handle. "It lists shell thickness, head type, tensile strength of the titanium lumbar frame, and radiographic records of every structural weld. Without a valid U-stamp riveted to the shell, commercial underwriters won't touch you. Do you know what the insurance premium would be on an uncertified black hole spinning in orbit? The actuarial tables alone would bankrupt three continents."
Tie Kuang chuckled, adjusting his welding helmet. "Plus, the Ceres underwriting syndicate gives us an automatic fifteen percent discount on our property policy with an active U-stamp."
"Fifteen percent on forty billion spirit stones is six billion stones a year," Austin said firmly. "That pays for our whole fluorocarbon coolant supply. Economics, Xuan Ming. Sound tradesman economics. You don't leave money on the table when a simple inspection plate saves six billion stones."
Tie Kuang leaned over the bench, tapping the pressure testing line on the clipboard.
"Speaking of testing, Boss, what did you use for the pressure test? You can't hook municipal tap water to a fifty-billion-Kelvin Kerr core."
"Of course not," Austin replied, shaking his head. "If you pump tap water into an event horizon, the molecules tear apart at the inner boundary. High-frequency cavitation would chew up the pump blades. We used cryogenic liquid neon pre-pressurized to two point one eight times ten to the thirty-fifth PSI. We held test pressure for thirty minutes. Zero pressure drop across the seals. The burst disc on the auxiliary bypass didn't even distort."
Austin unbuttoned his flannel work shirt, letting it hang from his heavy leather tool belt.
Across his lower back, the massive titanium framework holding fifteen hundred pounds of certified lead ballast gleamed beneath the shop lights. The eight fluorocarbon gyro chambers on his hips hummed at fifteen hundred RPM. They were completely steady, without a trace of vibration under one hundred Gs of local gravitational grip.
Between the eighth and ninth thoracic brackets sat a flat mounting pad on the central titanium spine.
Austin picked up a pneumatic blind-rivet gun. He clicked the yellow air hose onto the brass fitting: *CLICK-HISS.*
He positioned the stainless steel ASME nameplate against the mounting pad. In his fingers, he held four heavy-duty quarter-inch Monel blind rivets.
"Why Monel rivets, Boss?" Tie Kuang asked, peering closely at the dark silver fasteners. "Why not standard stainless or aircraft aluminum?"
"Thermal cycling and galvanic corrosion," Austin answered, tapping the rivets against the bench. "Aluminum rivets would react with the star-jade backing and shear off in three weeks. Monel is sixty-seven percent nickel and thirty percent copper. It stays tough from liquid helium temperatures all the way to two thousand degrees. When you hang fifteen hundred pounds of lead off your spine, you use marine-grade fasteners."
"Tie Kuang," Austin added. "Perform the final non-destructive check."
Tie Kuang stepped forward, pulling an ultrasonic thickness gauge from his pouch. He applied a dab of acoustic gel to Austin’s lower back, pressing the transducer against the titanium shell plates.
"Shell thickness: four point zero zero inches of solid forged star-jade alloy," Tie Kuang called out, reading the digital screen. "Zero defects. Zero subsurface voids. Acoustic wave speed matches calibration standards within point zero two percent."
He picked up an eddy-current probe. He scanned the weld seams connecting the ballast brackets to Austin’s frame.
"Eddy-current scan complete," Tie Kuang announced. "Zero fatigue cracking. Weld penetration is one hundred percent with a reinforced root pass."
Tie Kuang pulled out a black pen. He signed his full inspector signature at the bottom of Form U-1A and pressed down his brass National Board seal: *STAMP.*
"Signed, sealed, and entered into the solar registry, Boss."
"All right," Austin said. "Riveting the nameplate."
Beside them on the bench, Pug wore a pair of custom foam ear protectors slipped over his folded ears to guard against the pneumatic noise. He sat upright with his safety goggles down, watching Austin with solemn attention.
Austin placed the first Monel rivet into the corner hole of the nameplate. He slipped the nosepiece of the rivet gun over the mandrel, squeezed the trigger, and held it steady against his spine.
*POP.*
The heavy Monel rivet snapped home. Its mushroom head expanded with four thousand pounds of clamping force against the titanium plate.
*POP. POP. POP.*
Three more rivets followed in rapid succession.
The stainless steel ASME Section VIII nameplate was permanently riveted to the titanium framework encasing Austin’s lower spine. It sat cold, bright, and immovable, reflecting the overhead lights with unyielding permanence.
Tie Kuang checked the rivet heads with a depth micrometer. "Head height: point one two five inches across all four. Clamping tension is dead even."
Pug trotted across the workbench.
He slipped off his ear protectors with a quick head shake. He leaned his wrinkled snout forward, his clear safety goggles reflecting the shiny plate. He gave the newly riveted nameplate three analytical sniffs: *sniff-sniff-sniff*.
He tapped the bottom rivet head with his front right paw: *click*.
Pug looked up at Austin, his stubby tail giving two sharp, satisfied wags.
*"WOOF!"*
A soft, golden chime echoed in Austin’s vision:
Austin rolled his shoulders, feeling the solid bite of the new rivets against his lumbar harness.
He reached down to his tool belt, grabbed a clean rag, and wiped away excess acoustic gel from his back. He pulled his heavy work shirt back on, buttoned it to the throat, and strapped his orange safety vest securely over his chest.
Over his shoulders, the twin ninety-degree star-jade elbow diverters rested in quiet standby. Their exhaust blast ports were sealed with weather-tight rubber travel caps.
"There," Austin said, picking up his five-foot pipe wrench and giving it a light, familiar spin. He caught it cleanly by the grip. "Inspected, stamped, and code-compliant. If any celestial inspector from the Seventh Heaven or Central Galaxy shows up asking for our papers, we just show them the nameplate and the inspection certificate."
Xuan Ming knelt, bowing his white hard hat until it brushed the floor.
"A mortal who forged a black hole within his belly... and subjected it to the inspection codes of mortal tradesmen," Xuan Ming whispered in reverent awe. "Truly, the Dao of the Public Works Department is higher than the heavens themselves."
"It's not higher than the heavens, Xuan Ming," Austin said, smiling faintly as he strapped his hard hat under his chin. "The heavens just need to learn how to keep their permits in order."
He looked over at Pug, who was sitting on the workbench. The dog proudly held his platinum tennis ball between his paws, his tail thumping steadily against the wood.
"Come on, buddy," Austin said, scooping the pug gently into his arm. "Let’s head up to the observation deck. We have an epilogue to write."