Two of the men were tall, broad-shouldered, and efficient-looking. Another, shorter, almost certainly Foley, limped. The fourth, whose posture she now recalled from Los Angeles and Vancouver, a perpetual petulant slump, was Bobby Chombo, Bigend’s pet mathematician. That same annoying haircut, half of his thin face lost behind an unwashed diagonal curtain. There he’d been, below Fiona’s dragonfly, as if in a pale green steel engraving, wrapped in what looked like a robe or dressing gown. Neurasthenic, she remembered Inchmale delighting in calling him. He’d said that neurasthenia was coming back, and that Bobby was ahead of the curve, an early adapter.