The roundhouse at the Grand Central Junction was the only structure on the continent large enough to host five sovereign delegations without favoring a single capital.
Built thirty years prior at the precise geographical intersection of the mountain and basin lines, its sixty-foot timber dome arched over twelve concentric locomotive turntables. Tonight, the heavy iron turntables were locked in place, covered by thick oak planks to form a massive, circular floor lit by forty hanging coal-oil lanterns.
Outside, a freezing sleet lashed against the high glass clerestory windows, but inside the roundhouse, the air was warm, thick with the smell of pipe tobacco, wet wool, hot brass, and the lingering sulfur scent of Miller's heavy freight engine idling on the perimeter spur.
