"I think you did create a work of art," he says solemnly. "You're right about his face. I wish I'd had a camera on me. Where are we?"

In the excitement of making a quick getaway, they seem to have hit out on a northerly route, completely the opposite direction of Prometheus's apartment. The night is brisk, but not cutting. He finds he doesn't quite mind. The lake is a stone's-throw away, through an underpass, and the beach is empty under a clear sky.