Agency

37 Top-Heavy

Slightly smaller than Joe-Eddy’s bedroom, the room beyond the second set of brown doors, less brightly lit, was empty, aside from a metal folding chair and something that reminded Verity of an Italian heater her mother had had, an electric oil-filled radiator, squat yet dynamic-looking. This one, though, was strapped to a hand trolley, tilted back against the wall. Her mother’s had been teal, chrome trim. This one, various shades of gray. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Your guy,” Kathy Fang said, behind her, in the doorway.

Verity turned. “‘Guy’?”

“A drone,” Kathy Fang said. Dixon was behind her, his earmuffs on.

“It flies?”

“Has legs,” Dixon said. “Wheels too. Can’t fly.”

Verity turned back, seeing that it did have legs, short ones, two of them, currently positioned between the trolley’s two plump tires. “Why’s it strapped in like that?”

“Keeps it from falling over while the gyros are off,” Kathy Fang said. “It’s still charging.” She indicated a flat rectangular unit on the floor, like the charger for an electric bicycle but larger, a red LED glowing at one end. “That goes green, it’s ready.”

“For what?”

“For whoever it is you’re supposed to meet.”

Verity looked at the chair.

“Once you’ve met them, there’s a more comfortable space for you upstairs. Wave when they’re here and Dixon will take you up. We have mandibles need overseeing.” She stepped back, closing the door.

There were two unopened bottles of water on the floor beside the chair. She sat down, bent to pick one up, unscrewed the top, and drank.

With the bottle in her hand, she looked at the thing. The LED on the charger was still red. “Eunice?”

Which felt stupid, and made her sad when there was no answer.