The platform was supported by a slender silver column. Around him, the faint hum of electricity was a counterpoint to the distant dripping of condensation from a cooling fan. The static on the screen wavered into the shape of an impassive face, wide-mouthed and thick-browed.
“PASSCODE?” The rumbling voice echoed among the dangling wires.
“I have none,” he admitted. “I am here to see the Intelligence. There are no other options; he’s seen to that. You can check,” he added hurriedly. “I don’t mind waiting.”
The screen went dark. The water dripped. After a time, the face returned. “PASSCODE ACCEPTED.”
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
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