Carver's account arrived at five-forty in the morning.
Hunter was already awake. He had been awake since three, the charge cycling at its low baseline hum the way it did when he had not slept enough, and he had spent the hours between three and five on the precision exercises — the wire board sequences he ran from memory in the dark of his room, current moving from his fingers in controlled increments, nothing touching anything it was not meant to touch.
He read the account twice before Dayo arrived.
It was eleven pages. Single-spaced, no formatting, written the way a man writes when he has been carrying something for two years and has finally been given a container the right size for it. The facts were in sequence and the sequence was exact. Carver had the memory of someone who had org
