Staring at the small flat black space beneath his finger, a dark thought prodded his sense of certainty. Without Peter Jones, could Wallaby operate as smoothly and naturally as a peripheral of ICP?
* * *
Peter blinked awake in the room's gauzy afternoon brightness.
Whiffing a good, familiar smell, he shut his eyes for a little while, listened to her moving around, moving things around.
"Hi."
He opened his eyes. Kate was crouched before him. He propped himself up on one elbow.
"Oh," he moaned, touching his fingers to his temple.
"How you doing?"
He shrugged and his eyes met hers, then shifted past her shoulder. Several pieces of luggage sat by the doorway. "What's all that for?"
"We're going away for a bit."