Harl was waiting at the listening desk when Iven reached the clinic.
He took one look at Iven’s face and moved the recorder case off the spare chair.
“Sit.”
“I’ve eaten.”
“I wasn’t offering you stew.”
Iven sat.
The room was lit by a single shaded lamp. Vessa stood at the window with a slate held against the frame. Beyond her, night covered the basin except for the receiving lamps and the scattered lights aboard the waiting Marchers. The prototype’s packing crate stood closed beneath the bench. Nobody had connected it to an outward path while Iven was away.
Harl poured water into a cup.
