Scott poured out from the ducts on the correct floor. No lights, no movement. He slid under the office door and looked around. Lots of space—secretary's desk, conference room, several glass-walled offices looking into the central reception area, a private bathroom. Plush carpeting, Expensive Grey paint on the walls.
    He checked the conference room first. It looked as if it had been used that day and was waiting to be cleaned, but he found no notes or anything else useful. They had a state-of-the-art laser incinerator, which lowered the odds of finding a paper trail of any sort. He considered the computers, but they might be hooked up to an alarm if these people were as paranoid as they could be. File cabinets and desks were all locked, except for one associate's drawer, but it contained only innocuous files on local businesses they might be working with, nothing to suggest they were more than they appeared. The minimal light caused Scott a certain amount of discomfort; he kept a watchful eye on his internal power levels and continued searching, moved into Gordon's office to examine the desk. As a cloud of gas he flowed around its crannies, seeking irregularities.
    There. A drawer narrower than it should be, and an airtight compartment taking up the extra room. He examined it more closely and found a space roughly three inches wide, eight inches deep, six inches tall. A bundle of cables ran up from it toward the computer, but did not appear to connect to anything; someone could entirely remove the computer and never suspect its presence unless they happened to look at the bottom of the computer and know what that small matching spot meant. Very sophisticated data transmission technology, similar to that he and the doctor had used in setting up the link from the island base to the apartment which had become K. Robeson.

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