Hidden in the hollow command console of the dummy Highway boat, I waited in the elevator like the secret behind the gimmicked bookcase in a children’s mystery story. The boat was a prop, a set piece, like the Bavarian cottage glued to the plaster alp in some amusement park a nice touch, but one that wasn’t quite necessary. If the returnees accept us at all, they take us for granted; our cover stories and props don’t seem to make much difference.