The door opened, revealing a man in gray. Was he the same one who locked them in there? Who knows? They all wore the same: gray trousers, gray suits, gray shirts, gray ties, and of course, the omnipresent dark glasses. “The District Chief is ready to see you,” he told them.

Malin stepped forward, and guided by the agent, began to walk down the corridor.

Uri rushed after them, not wanting to stray too far and get lost. His stomach twisted the same way it had when he was an Economics student, and he would show up to take an exam. Of course, now there was the worrying detail that an F could mean that his life would end in the trash can.

He moved his eyes from here to there, studying everything around him, though nothing he saw quenched his intrigue. In the corridor, there were no signs, just a line of closed doors that lead to who the hell knew what kind of office. None of them had a nameplate.

He watched closely at the agents that they ran into along the way, but none provided interesting data or anything he no longer knew; some officers carried papers, others spoke on phones. None seemed to notice them. They all wore the same gray suit, even the female agents; with the difference that they wore heeled shoes; gray ones, of course. Right, because they were in a building, immersed in what appeared to be office work, no one was wearing their dark glasses; that would have been ridiculous.

He looked back over his shoulder and found two guards clinging to their backs, and they did wear those devilish glasses.

Once they reached the end of the corridor, they faced a two-leaf wooden door that appeared to be solid as a rock; the only door with identification, a bronze plate that said: Directory. The agent announced himself with a knock. A young secretary received them and ushered them into an anteroom. At least there was a window facing the street there and a Ficus that put a note to the elegant wooden decoration.

The secretary wore glasses and pearl earrings. She must have been the only woman in the building who wore clear glasses, not dark, and who showed her legs wearing a miniskirt. She wasn’t wearing the trousers the rest seemed to wear by decree.

With a kind yet cold gesture she pointed to another door, one almost as wide and solid as the one announcing Directory, but with a plate that said: Thomas Hemdell – Director, a name that neither Uri nor Malin was familiar with.

Upon entering, a pleasant aroma of coffee mixed with a touch of tobacco and a soft waltz playing in the background greeted them; two things that fit perfectly with the rustic decor of the office. Everything was made of varnished walnut wood: the old desk; the frame of the armchairs with high backs and armrests, padded and coated with black leather; the huge bookcase that lined the right wall, with glass doors that showed a thousand old books of all thicknesses and sizes; and the shelf on the left wall where the stereo rested.

Behind the desk, there was a huge window. The Director was standing next to it, looking down the street and smoking a thick cigar.

Apparently, the norm of not smoking indoors doesn’t mean squat here, Uri thought.

The Director turned to them. He was a sturdy man of brunette complexion and sullen factions around the age of sixty. He had thick eyebrows and round eyes, brown and shiny; a prominent nose, thick but neat mustaches, and thick dark hair with some gray threads combed to the side like he’s an old-school movie hunk. He wore a glossy jet-black tuxedo, with a red tie peeking out between the suit lapels.

The man gave his cigar one last puff and put it out in the ashtray on the desk. He lowered the stereo volume with the remote and greeted them with a strong handshake, one of those shakes that only bombastic, confident people give.

“Welcome. I’m the director of the Orbit agency and Proxima’s district chief of the Satellite Agency,” he introduced himself. His voice was rough, yet paused. “My name is Thomas Hemdell. Thanks for coming.”

Funny. Only the first one of those positions is on your office door’s plate, Malin was about to say, but sarcasm wasn’t a good idea now.

She fixed her light blue eyes on Hemdell’s black eyes and tried to find out what was in store for them; one could get a lot of information just by looking someone in the eye. But she got nothing. The psychological wall that the district chief imposed in front of her was as dense as the blackness of his pupils. Get ready for trouble, gal, she thought.

Hemdell opened a box of cigars and offered them to each one. They rejected the courtesy with a polite smile. Uri would have liked to help himself to one, though it would have given him the sense of tranquility he so badly needed.

“I see that my men’s appreciation of the beatings you suffered was somewhat exaggerated, Mr. O22” Hemdell told him. “Glad to see you looking good.”

“Thank you.”

Uri didn’t know if he should smile or not. He was torn between admiring that man’s demeanor, or fearing what he might say or do. Thomas Hemdell’s posture was typical of the executives with whom he shared meetings in Homam Enterprises; it was the arrogance of someone with a strong personality, who was used to handling a lot of power. Uri was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to buy Hemdell’s sympathy with flattery or by inviting him to dinner, as he did with those businessmen when he needed to close favorable deals for the company. This time, his charm and smile would be useless.

“You may not remember, Mr. O22, but you and I met a while ago, at a party hosted by Homam Enterprises,” Hemdell said. “Although, as I recall, at that time you were still playing at being an underwear model for the youngest of the Carinae.”

This time, Uri knew what to do and faked a smile. That sentence had been a deliberate attack to make it clear which of those present had permission to humiliate the other and who did not. Surely other similar comments would come.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you,” he replied then. “It’s just that I was more concerned about modeling and getting dressed immediately to avoid catching a cold than socializing.”

Now that he looked at Hemdell carefully, yeah, he thought he remembered him. Although he could also be confusing him with someone else. There were so many businessmen and politicians he had met in recent years that if the relationship had not transcended that first: ‘This is Mr. So-and-so from the So-and-so company. Oh, nice to meet you. Goodbye,’ it was very difficult for him to have a vivid memory of the person.

“You must be wondering why I sent for you,” Hemdell said, and invited them to take their seats. “I don’t like wasting my time, so I won’t take too much of yours.”

By seeing his movements and hearing his words, Malin got the impression that she was in front of a skilled merchant, as well as the head of an intelligence agency. What other intention could be hiding behind his pristine presence, if not to achieve something through a haughty attitude and refined oratory?

On Hemdell’s desk, besides a monitor and an ashtray with the remains of the cigar, was an ordered pile of documents. There must be my deportation order, Malin presumed.

Uri, for his part, glanced at the monitor and realized that it wasn’t very different from the monitors in his office. Truth be told, the director’s office had disappointed him. For some reason, he had hoped to encounter a fully computerized site; something more modern, full of holographic screens and artificial lights; a place where, just by snapping your fingers, the coffee maker—which must have been hidden somewhere, the aroma of coffee was strong—could be put into operation, or where the monitor could be turned on with voice command; a place where it wouldn’t have necessary a damn remote to turn down the music. For crying out loud! If even his phone could do it, how could an agency specialized in capturing criminals equipped with such advanced technology as implants for Grenadiers in their wrists work with such conventional equipment?

The answer came to him then: It was part of a facade, just as was the position of director of the detective agency Orbit.

Hemdell activated the screen by touching it with one of his thick fingers and turned it so that the couple could see what was there: The photo of a gigantic ovoid black rock, protruding from the dry, arid soil, with dense vegetation in the background. Someone with a minimum of imagination could point out the similarity between that rock and the egg of a bird of monstrous proportions.

“This strange thing is deep in the Black Plateau jungle, a small town in the Proxima district, a few kilometers away from the city,” Hemdell said. “It was once found by locals who predictably named it Ita-Hu, which in their native language means black rock. At first glance it doesn’t seem to have anything special, beyond its size and shape; and we would never have been interested in it if it hadn’t been for…” The graphic of an electromagnetic spectrum full of colorful waves appeared on the screen. “Six months ago, we discovered that it emits a very particular kind of radiation, Lavra-type.”

“Lavra?” Malin wondered. “Lavra is the radiation emitted by the space-time Geysers,” she reminded Uri.

“The ones that are connected to that pocket universe,” he nodded. It was hard to forget the tortuous electrical passage they had both gone through with the help of their bracelets to travel to Markabian territory in the blink of an eye. Uri wondered how much the Satellites knew about that lightning trip; perhaps the man in front of him could answer his question, although it was better to remain in doubt.