No feed appeared. Netherton remembered when he’d last seen Conner, in footage of cousin Leon’s inauguration. Wearing a deeply uncharacteristic dark gray suit, bespoke, from a Philadelphia firm chosen by Lowbeer’s much younger stub-self, himself a monument to Jermyn Street, though given in the county to waxed cotton jackets and suede desert boots. The suit had made Conner look more like a junior American diplomat than one of the dissident Secret Service men he’d at that point been charged with protecting Leon from. "Well, thanks. Yourself?"