But it involves admitting to my controls that I’ve failed, that I’ve slotted up. Frag the fact that—apparently—a face from my past made me. Frag the fact that I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it, that it’s just a matter of the dice coming up snake-eyes at long last. Nobody’ll blame me, nobody’ll censure me, there’ll be no official reprimands on my record or unofficial slaps on the wrist. My controls will curse a blue streak and grind their teeth and pound their desks because the op’s come to a premature end, but they know and I know that there’s no blame attached to me. I’m Teflon on this one, and the drek just slides off. The point is...