Crowds surge, crates lurch like icebergs, and a solitary sheep wheels his way steadily through the hanger. Gaps in the whirlwind open before him, and close in his wake. Never pushing. Never quite stopping. Always where he ought to be, when he ought to be there. And now he is before Jil, armed only with a frown. 

"Were the choice mine, there would be no difficulty at all," he says. "Why?"