A few hours after their arrival, Armitage had sent him into the yellow maze to call Riviera out for a meal. He’d found him curled like a cat on a thin pad of temperfoam, naked, apparently asleep, his head orbited by a revolving halo of small white geometric forms, cubes, spheres, and pyramids. “Hey, Riviera.” The ring continued to revolve. He’d gone back and told Armitage. “He’s stoned,” Molly said, looking up from the disassembled parts of her fletcher. “Leave him be.”
