Jones closes the door and sits down at the table. Each place is equipped with a soft pencil and paper, and a curious silvered sheet like a blotter made of oiled metal. Neith touches the nearest one, and finds it cold and slick, surprisingly heavy. She pictures herself heaving it at him, or wielding it like a stool in a bar fight, and decides against. Better just to use a heavy heel and her elbows: one, two, three and repeat as necessary. Of course: it’s tungsten, for writing notes that leave no history on the furniture.