She sees, and she stares, not at the figure she is pursuing but at the cameras on the ceiling of the passageway, and at the vile, impossible thing they are doing. It is worse than the spineless hips, the dislocated steps. Those things she expects, somehow, from her quarry. If she learned tomorrow that Lönnrot were an image projected on to her eyes by her glasses in response to some illegitimate algorithm planted upon her personal devices by a felon, perhaps Smith himself, her only response would be that it explained a great deal. This is different.