We climbed out and crossed the street. The closed door proved to be locked as well. Irene Elliott: banged impatiently at it with the flat of one copper-skinned hand and someone sat up sluggishly in the back office. After a moment, a figure identifiable as Victor Elliott came down to the transmission floor, past the reception counter and towards us. His grey hair was untidy and his face swollen with sleep. He peered out at us with a lack of focus I'd seen before on datarats when they'd been cruising the stacks for too long. Jack-happy.