I tilted my chair back and stared up at the ceiling. A flight of gray birds angled overhead in a southward-pointing chevron. Their voices were faintly audible, honking to each other. Prescott’s office was environment formatted, all six internal surfaces projecting virtual images. Currently her gray metal desk was incongruously positioned halfway down a sloping meadow on which the sun was beginning to decline, complete with a small herd of cattle in the distance and occasional birdsong. The image resolution was some of the best I’d seen.
