He leaned back, the data-cube finally going cold in his hand. At Terminal 1.39, getting lost was the only way to be found.
The overhead display flickered.
Just then, a low-frequency rumble shook the floor. A battered, matte-black bus pulled into Bay 12. Its doors hissed open, releasing a cloud of cooling vapor. There was no driver, only a flickering holographic interface of an old woman knitting.