Once in the airport he took the tram to the transit terminal and paid cash for the PATH ticket into Manhattan. The subway car was cold and grimy and reeked of urine, sweat, and smoke. No one wore suits. The ads were two-dimensional. He stood with his back to the car doors and grinned. The only one who met his gaze was a punker—a rat shaman wannabe from the look—festooned with far too many talismans for them to be practical. Chase nodded, but the boy looked like he wanted to spit.