I scramble to the rear of the truck for a look around that way. All I can see are shadows every fragging where among the crates and shipping cases and piles of odds and sods. There are lights, of course, hanging from the girders and cat-walks near the roof, but not many, not enough. For about the hundredth time, I wish I’d gone for the full-meal deal and had my eyes enhanced while the surgeon already had me opened up installing the skillwires. Thermo, or even just low-light, would be a lifesaver at the moment. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if the thing that got me killed right now was a little queasiness over eye surgery?