Zero History

to the hotel. We’ll phone you.”
Milgrim stood, lowering the Hackett bag, which had been covering the startled-looking
digital portrait of himself he wore around his neck, on its lanyard of chartreuse nylon.
“Why are you wearing that?”
“It’s required,” said Milgrim. “I don’t work here.”
“Remind me to fix that,” said Bigend, opening the gray folder, which contained a thick
sheaf of what appeared to be clippings from Japanese magazines.
Milgrim, who was already closing the door behind him, said nothing.