The bus station itself was grubby, a relic of the last century. But the telecom booths were clean and modern-looking. I slotted my credstick and direct-accessed Professor Ironfeather’s number at the university. I left the telecom’s optical recorder on, since the Azzies were likely to pay closer attention to any calls that didn’t include an optical component—they’d naturally conclude that anyone who shut it off must have something to hide. I tapped my foot nervously as the call connected, looking over my shoulder for ACS guards. No doubt about it, I was getting paranoid. Aztlan will do that to you.