Carver Oldham grunted an acknowledgment. He was fifty-three years old, with a bad knee, arthritis in his right hand, and a reputation that stretched from the Permian Basin to the Alberta oil sands. He was here for one reason: the .
He didn’t answer. He was in the zone .
The rod burned down to a nub. He flicked it out, grabbed a fresh one from the pouch on his thigh, and struck again before the joint cooled. The slag peeled back on its own—a perfect curl of black scale. That was the sign. A 5G weld that cleans itself means your heat, speed, and angle were exactly right.
“Yeah,” he muttered. He knelt—wincing at the knee—and ran his gauge across the gap. 3/32 of an inch. Perfect. The line-up clamps were tight. The backing ring was clean. He’d already preheated the joint to 300 degrees, watching the Tempilstick melt like butter.