Around her the city has fallen into All Fool’s Day—the first one now will later be last, and all that. The rickshaws team and dart in a shell game with Neith as the pea, separating and plaiting themselves until abruptly the pod bursts, dandelion-style, and hers is just one of fifty or sixty rickshaws headed in all directions through the chaos. Under the seat is a biodegradable rain cape, courtesy of the London tourist board, and a pair of overshoes. She feels a heavy lump in the pocket, and reaches in to find a chunky pay-as-you-go tourist terminal with a broken screen, wrapped in a map of the West End. Kraken’s animated face winks up at her. Yes: this rickshaw, not any of the others, because only this one had this lost terminal sitting here for her. By tomorrow it would have run out of charge. By the day after that, the network provider would have come and collected it—but of course, by then there’d be another and another, because tourists leave these things everywhere and others pick them up. It’s part of the business model.