The summer solstice of 2030 has long passed, and the sun's direct point is moving south from the Tropic of Cancer, now nearing the equator.
Above the equator, a helicopter is taking off from the deck of a warship belonging to the Federation's Third Fleet.
Yawgmoth was quite troubled: "It's unnecessary, really unnecessary to do this... We could have discussed this in a restaurant in Boston..."
"Don't resist, Comrade Yawgmoth," Xiang Shan, who was sitting opposite him, said earnestly, "At this stage, if you dare to discuss such matters in a fast-food restaurant, an FBI sniper will dare to aim at your head— oh, sorry, that assumes you can even enter a fast-food restaurant. Right now, you are still technically enjoying freedom."
Yawgmoth patted his forehead: "Then let's find a place in Boston where you bureaucrats can feel at ease..."
