Most restaurants won't seat me, for the same reason I'm having difficulty moving into my apartment in Midtown: I'm a radiation hazard. It's mostly the radiation, I'm sure. Their proprietors will still cater to me, indeed many bend themselves in knots to do so, accompanied by the requisite deluge of apology; but to seat me risks running afoul of various health and zoning codes. (More daring establishments put me al fresco, or perhaps alone in a banquet room, but these subterfuges too entail risk.) I am understanding, I am patient, but it would be nice to occasionally dine in mixed company like a human.

"They're a cult," Broadmoore said, without hesitation.

"Are you sure? You haven't even spoken to any of them."

Broadmoore glanced meaningfully at the plastic crate of ocular brainleashes resting on her workbench, each floating embryonic in its individual translucent sac of sterilizing goo.

"Yes," she said, "I'm sure."