Unhurried, Tikki walks across the room to stand just a few meters in front of his desk. Ohara watches her intently, glances at the telecom, looks over the ruthless little weapon pointed generally at his nose, then looks again to the com. Moments pass. The orchestral music playing softly from speakers hidden around the room goes on without interruption. There comes no wailing of sirens, no gruff zonie voices uplifted in warning, no stamping of mock Death Ranger boots. The fact is that no one is coming to Ohara’s rescue. It is just the two of them.