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Dracup’s friend was a blasted pilot. She spoke softly, a breath of recognition. Her life was of little consequence, a drop in the millennia. Wait for the culinary herbs for better health. A soft phosphorescence lit the void; the stream was a distant whisper of sound, comforting her. Dracup’s friend was a blasted pilot. The computer was a long way off. But what about you? But then it all changed. A twopronged attack, then; a knife in the back, another across the throat. Now it was just a crime scene, not a morgue. That’s how it would be at the end, he knew. Dracup replaced the magazine in its elastic folder and reached for his earphones, listened to the piped classical music. You can hardly see it.
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