He had to shield his eyes against the lights in Michael’s workroom, dimmed though they were. Sitting with fingers poised above his keyboard, the Englishman was immaculate again in a double-breasted blazer, cavalry twill pants, and Italian leather loafers. The cord from the Fuchi was slotted into the silver of his datajack, making Michael oblivious to anything but the electronic reality of the Matrix. Tom was sitting nearby with Kristen standing behind him, braiding the troll’s freshly washed, lustrous black hair. Having never seen Tom’s hair loose, Serrin was astonished that it fell almost to the small of the troll’s back. He was still gazing in wonderment at the sight when the printer on the desk next to Michael disgorged a scrap of paper. Serrin ripped it off and read it.