Agarwal was in his late forties, about Sly’s height, slender and with narrow shoulders and hips. He had a long, thin face, dominated by a hooked nose. His skin, the color of milked coffee, was rough, with large pores. He wore his thinning hair combed straight back from his face, showing the single datajack in his right temple. He always wore wire-framed spectacles—a strange affectation in these days of permanent-wear contact lenses and corneal surgery—behind which his brown eyes looked soft and weak. Every time Sly had ever seen him, he’d been wearing a two-piece suit, always new, always impeccably tailored, but several years out of style, and a tie. Doesn’t he ever dress casually? she wondered.