Wolverton stands on the edge of the square, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, watching office workers hurrying to lunch in the cold.  He spots Chen Baochai’s bright parka crossing the open space long before she’s close enough to recognise.

She stops beside him, rubbing her hands for warmth.  Wolverton palms her a USB stick, which disappears into a parka pocket.

“I trust that takes care of our arrangement?”

“If it’s what you say it is, we’re golden.”

Wolverton nods, satisfied.  He glances up at the leaden sky then sets off without a word, another face in the crowd.


~ by Electro-mechanical Man on June 16, 2011.

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