You approach Shelves B and C once more.

You approach Shelves B and C once more.

Search the shelf.

The exposed side of Shelving Unit C is nearly empty, just a few emaciated folders and spiral-bound reports.

If what you're looking for is still down here, it must be on the other side.

Look between the two shelving units.

They're too close together. You shine your flashlight beam into the narrow gap between them, but all you can make out are rows and rows of angular silhouettes.

Full of untouched materials.

Pull the shelves apart.

No joy. The old metal groans, but does not budge.

How am I supposed to separate these things?

You run your hand along the darkened gap, and discover a small metal latch linking the two units together.

An anti-tip system. That explains it.

I release thee, shelf. (Flip the latch open.)

You disengage the lock on this shelf.

Try to separate the shelves again.

The old shelving unit groans like a wounded bovine, but still refuses to budge.

There must be another latch on the opposite side. The job's only half-done.

Both sides of the latch need release. Just need to reach the other shelf.

Fuck you, mechanism! (Pop it open.)

I'm sorry, metal thing. (Gently release the latch.)

Just be normal about it. (Disengage the latch.)

Easy peasy, like unhooking a bra.

Hotwire the shelves.

You pop a small hatch open and slip your hands into the warm cavity. Inside, a motor sits exposed, humming lightly.

Get up in the shelving unit's guts.

Nice, the rail bus connector links every shelf here via the tracks. Force them into maintenance mode and their contents are yours. Go ahead --tinkerer's choice.

Unplug the rail connector.

You hook your thumb under the release tab's plastic lip, and pull. The connector slides out with a dry scrape. By your feet, the rails crackle. You take a breath, and push the connector back in.

Around you, motors begin humming in unison. Unseen locking mechanisms come undone.

Close the hatch and step back.

The shelf slowly moves along the rails. As it settles into place, its neighbour follows suit, clearing the way.

The sound of grinding metal echoes throughout the silo, rising and expanding like the tolling of a great gong.

Much louder than you were expecting.

Careful. You are not alone.

Floor's yours.

Force-eject the safety fuse.

You pluck the ancient micro-fuse free from its socket. The motor dies, instantly. You count to five, and reseat the fuse.

Short the diagnostics pins.

You look for a loose screw along the panel -- and quickly find one. A few twists, and it's yours. You place the screw horizontally across two safety pins, bridging them.

You scratch your head, hoping a solution will come to you. It doesn't.

You stare at the hatch under the operator's panel, unsure of how to proceed.

Alright. (Step away.)

The control panel hums in the corner, low and constant.

... sans flashlight.

You approach two large archival shelving units labelled B and C, pressed close together. They sit on recessed rails.

Read the end labels.

According to these labels, Shelving Unit B consists of 'Additional Appendices', while Shelving Unit C is devoted to 'Housekeeping and Transmission'.

Here you go. This is where the old spy's reference ID pointed you.

You're gonna need your flashlight if you want to see anything.