"At that angle." He nodded at the book in her hands. "Your chin's up. Your eyes are aimed at the floor."
She looked down at the book.
He was correct.
She had not, she realized, been reading for the last several minutes. She had been looking at the probability field shift in the room and had been holding the book as a prop.
She closed it.
"You're a guest of the floor?" she said.
"Of a sort."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the accurate one," he said.
Her phone rang.
She looked at it. Celia. Her thumb moved to decline — she didn't take personal calls on the floor during operating hours, this was a rule she'd maintained without exception for four years — and then it occurred to her that Celia had never called during operating hours, which meant either Celia had forgotten the rule or something had changed since breakfast.
She answered.
"Celia."
