2038 and they’re all out on the streets, sneakered and bearded. They don’t care that it’s January; it never gets cold now anyway. It’s almost time.
Weintraub is one of the wandering crowd, Vinge paperback in hand, but he’s starting to get worried. It should have happened by now. What’s their UTC offset here, anyway?
“Sir?” shouts a blogarazzo, camgun leveled at him. “Are you involved in this activity? Can you tell me what you’re all waiting for?”
“The Sing,” says Weintraub, tears tracking his face, “the Sing Sing Sing,” and stares at his wristwatch for the first sign of life.