As I expected, the door of Lev Abalkin’s temporary home was not locked. The small front room was empty; sitting on a low round table was a toy panda nodding its head and shining its ruby eyes.
I looked over to the right, into the bedroom. It looked like no one has been in there in two, if not three, years; even the automated lighting was not enabled. In the corner above the made bed, there were cobwebs with dead spiders in them.
I walked around the table into the kitchen. The kitchen has been used. On the table, there were dirty plates, the window of Delivery Line was open, and in the receiving chamber, there was an unclaimed package with a bunch of bananas in it. Did Lev Abalkin have a butler in the Group C headquarters? Or did he simply not know how to get a robot cleaner started?
The
