The brass plate on the door read VANCE & SONS, but there were no sons. Only Solomon Vance, standing before the great brass machine that filled the entire basement of his Manchester mill, listening ...
The machine had been his father's. Thomas Vance had spent thirty years building it, feeding it punch cards stamped with the output of every mill in the North Midlands—coal production, textile shipments, casualty reports from the factory floors. On his deathbed, Thomas had gripped Solomon's wrist with a strength that belied his wasting frame and whispered one word: Inheritor. Solomon had not...
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