In the middle of a field, one telegraph pole was being rained on by a lone cloud poised far above it.
Many people might have thought that odd, but for Silver it was just a rather depressing aspect of what had been supposed to be a purely technical problem.
Tweak the wiring, banish the unwanted signal from two years ago, that’s all they’d seemed to think it would need. And of course he could do it; of course he could.
It was only that at the moment his nice jacket was getting wet across the shoulders and water was trickling down the back of his neck as he worked.
What was worse, the human engineer who’d died here two years ago and who was responsible for the echoing signal, kept hanging about and telling him he’d never finish the job.
It was highly off-putting. This wasn’t what specialists were supposed to do, Silver thought, and shivered.
He didn’t like the rain, he didn’t like being alone, and he didn’t like dead humans criticising his work.
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