Gravity, Victor decided, was a suggestion. A very persuasive suggestion, like a tax audit or a toothache, but a suggestion nonetheless.
He walked along the east wall of the hallway, placing his boots carefully between the family portraits. The carpet—which was technically on his left, nailed to the vertical surface—smelled of dust and ancient mites. To his right, the ceiling loomed like a precipice. To his left, the floor was a sheer cliff.
"Don't look left," he muttered to himself. "Down is relative. Down is a state of mind."
He stepped over a sconce. The flame inside flickered sideways, defying physics in a way that made his inner ear scream.
Iron-Jaw walked ahead of him, his magnetic boots clanking rhythmically against the wallpaper. The old cyborg didn't seem to mind. For a creatur
