The coveralls were much too large and hung on Paddy as on a small child. But as he descended the ladder to the boiler rooms, he realized that no one was likely to notice. The reddish glow from twenty-seven raging furnaces overpowered what little electric light there was. If you could keep your stinging eyes open amid the clouds of dust and steam, you were probably too distracted by the crashing, roaring din of the place to concentrate on who you saw there. He stood, choking, at the base of the ladder, wondering if he was going to suffocate. It was like trying to breathe hot volcanic ash. How did the black gang manage it? Lungs of steel, they must have had. Paddy had explored most of the Titanic since stowing away, but this was his first time in the boiler rooms. Even in Belfast, with a skeleton crew on board, this had always been a beehive of activity. Steam powered not just the enormous reciprocating engines, but also the huge dynamos that generated abundant electricity. No city in the world was as technologically advanced as the pride of the White Star Line.
