No wonder he was tired. It was gone seven a.m. It would be daylight out there. Real daylight, not just the images of it on the screens around the seventh-floor room, although, of course, strictly speaking those in real time were showing real daylight too. There was a slow dull ache along his forehead. It was time he had the optician check him over again; he had already been warned about the dangers of constant screen work. The bulky cathode ray tubes had long since been banished, but having thin OLED screens only meant there was room for more of them. For the last four hours, however, he had sat glued to just one. It had been fascinating work, though not as rewarding as he had hoped in the end. As he took another long look at the montage of images of Marcus Frey on the screen to his left, he realised he had acquired a grudging respect for the academic and analytical powers of the man. Even if he did not agree with his conclusions. Part of the problem of course, was working out exactly what the man’s conclusions were.
