# 3 — The Broth-Crust

Grod remained pinned against monowheel, knobby knees trembling inside damp oiled macintosh.

Across chest, seventeen clipboards hung crooked, carbon flimsy-papers fluttering like grey moth-wings in warm updraft. Shaking hand rose to straighten askew spectacles, fingers smudged greasy with graphite dust.

"Electromagnetic fine," Grod croaked, voice papery thin. "Section four. Pension ledger is non-negotiable. But... Shore Durometer..."

His empty belly gave cavernous, squelching groan like wet rubber boot sucked out of deep creek-mud. Glump-squelch.

Ollie did not gloat. Patient, unhurried, Ollie set drift-alder spade upright against rim of Vat Four, reached into second pocket, and drew out shallow saucer whittled smooth from pale alder-burl. Tucked behind sat curved sheep-horn salt-spoon.

Ollie leaned over western coil where lipid-broth simmered at sweetest golden bubble. At vat edge, where foaming fermented kernel-lipids touched cool iron rim, broth had baked into delicate, lace-spun crust: amber-gold, wafer-thin, sizzling quiet with microscopic beads of sesame and crushed thyme oil.

With tip of horn spoon, Ollie lifted warm triangular shard. Crust broke away from iron with crisp, brittle *snap*.

Warm shard settled onto wooden saucer. Three grey grains of crushed rock-salt dusted across amber surface from greaseproof pocket pouch. Ollie stepped light across catwalk grating. *Thud-sqwip. Thud-sqwip.*

Saucer hovered level with Grod’s lowest zinc clipboard.

"Consuming uncertified sample during active audit," Grod whispered, eyes fixed on warm fragrant triangle, "is automatic demotion to Third-Class Pen-Pusher."

"Throat sounds like an empty pipe, Inspector," Ollie said. Yellow dandelion-fluff on Ollie's scalp relaxed, settling into round, peaceful puff. "Babbies won't finish knitting for twenty minutes. Nobody can measure chew-density on an empty, whistling gullet."

Grod looked from Ollie’s wide hazel eyes down to saucer. Curl of savory, toasted cumin steam rose off warm wood, drifting straight into Grod’s twitching left nostril.

Ink-stained thumb gave hungry twitch.

Slowly, cautious as someone probing loaded brass mousetrap, Grod pinched amber crust between chalky, stiff fingertips. Heat sank direct into chilled knuckles, thawing stiff joints with sudden, prickling comfort.

Into mouth went shard.

Sound was single, immaculate *crunch*, followed by profound, reverent quiet across _Slumping Shelf_.

Eyes rounded behind spectacles. Dry parchment skin of cheeks flushed faint dusty-rose. Salt hit tongue first, brisk and clean, followed by deep nutty coat of slow-fermented lipid-oil and fragrant green punch of bruised thyme. Brittle crust yielded without fight, melting into rich, velvety savor that traveled down throat like swallowed cashmere blanket. Pure soup-comfort.

Grod ceased chewing. Stood stock-still on iron deck, Adam’s apple bobbing twice as savory warmth pooled in hollow, audited chest.

Inside velvet pocket, Clack’s antenna gave tiny sarcastic twitch. Single skeptical green pixel-eye peered through hinge slit.

"Well?" Clack piped through speaker grille. "Enough jaw-resistance for you, old crow, or shall we fetch a paving brick to gnaw?"