Their path eventually leads to a completely walled-off area in the back of the garage. It's even got an actual door--a heavy metal one with a sliding panel, like the ones at the train station in City 17. It only takes two knocks from the lanky man and a quick peek from whoever's on the other side before they're allowed in.

The space beyond merits a label like "inner sanctum" or "nerve center." There are several freestanding bulletin boards covered with various papers, Post-Its, and maps of the Seattle area. A bank of aging but serviceable personal computers sits along one wall. At the center of the room is a large table covered with the largest map of all, with half a dozen people clustered around it.

"Sir? We got 'visitors'."

One of the figures around the table turns to look. He's an older man--in his late sixties, at least--with well-combed white hair and a physique that's past its prime, but not by much. Without a word, he walks up to Gordon and looks him over with a squint that suggests that the prescription on his bifocals might be a few years out of date. (There aren't a lot of optometrists working in Seattle these days.)

Finally, the old man steps back with a grunt of acknowledgment. "Well, you got the look down, I'll give ya that. Just like the pictures."