The Panic Stricken Machinist

“Wait!” she screamed from the doorway into the vaulted stone room.

The sound bounced and echoed around the high ceiling and reflected messily from the huge device that dominated the far end of the room. Beautifully crafted from dark wood accented with highly polished brass spars, it sported a variety of dials and a veritable cat’s cradle of pipework; sometimes these terminated in a gauge, and in one case, a pair of taps stood ready.

Turning at her voice, his hand still on the switch, he found her running toward him using the most direct route across the room, ignoring a chair which went flying out before her. Stopping just short of crashing into him, and the delicate machinery behind him, she pulled his hand away from the lever, and shoved him against the rough stone wall.

She held his wrist tightly while she checked each of the seven major displays carefully, until, finally satisfied that his interference had done no harm, she glared up into his face.

“What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!”

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