pushed the button. “Yes?” It was one of those computers. “Allied Messenger, for Karen Mendelsohn.” “A delivery?” “She’s gotta sign for it.” “Authorized to barcode—” “Her hand. Gotta see her hand. Do it. You know?” Silence. “Nature of delivery?” “You think I open them or what?” “Nature of delivery?” “Well,” Chevette said, “it says ‘Probate Court,’ it’s from San Francisco, and you don’t open the door, Mr. Wizard, it’s on the next plane back.” “Wait, please,” said the computer.
