Tach’s iPod is smoking.
“It looks,” says their fence Celesque dryly, “a little too hot for me to move.”
“Hey, nobody’s coming after this one,” says Ashlock, which is technically true. “Just put out some feelers or whatever.”
“There are practically feelers coming out of that thing already,” says Celesque.
“It’s good math. Powerful. It’ll sell.”
“Then sell it yourself, sweetie.” Celesque shrugs. “I’m not touching it. If that’s what I think it is, do yourself a favor. Hit it with a hammer, toss it in a lake.”
But information, Ashlock knows to her dismay, can be neither created nor destroyed.