Quillon replaced his hat and pushed his spectacles back onto his nose, even though the steam fogged them almost instantly. With its pale green walls, sacks of soiled linen and churning coin-operated machines, the launderette was a bright, steam-filled oasis. Despite the lateness of the hour two people were sitting apart on the hard benches waiting for their washing cycles to end, staring into the hypnotic vortices of their whirling clothes. In that moment he would gladly have joined them, choosing life in the launderette over the uncertainties that lay ahead beyond Spearpoint. Then they were outside, in the night and the rain. Quillon caught himself looking around, eyeing the surrounding streets, buildings and vehicles for a potential spy or assailant. ‘Try not to look like you’ve got a target on your head,’ Meroka said. They took the funicular down to the next ledge, then rode the elevated. Slot-cars and slot-cabs buzzed by in racing blue flashes. Blade, the female pop singer, winked at them from an animated neon advertisement covering the whole side of a tenement building, while she took sultry puffs from a Mariner cigarette.
