The minute I’m into the hallway, out comes the H & K and jander turns into combat crouch. My back against the wall in the corner, I hold my breath and listen. Again, nothing—no running water, no muffled trideo, no footsteps. Nothing. The place is empty, the feeling hits me again even stronger than before. It’s a chill, creepy sensation. Scanning with the H & K muzzle, I move deeper into the house. At the back, looking out over the optical-chip-sized yard, is a lounge where gangers hang, watch the trid, and generally blow the drek. Usually the place looks like a grenade hit it, with pizza boxes, beer cans, and similar drek thrown and scattered everywhich where. There’s a phone, too, next to a patch of the wall scrawled over with notes, LTG numbers, and such. If I’m going to get a quick indication of what’s gone down, and when, the garbage lying around might be where I find it.