With a hasty bow bubbleward, Miles turns and starts hobbling at maximum speed back to the reception area from which the lady's ba collected him.

He's not going to make it in time.



He doesn't make it in time. There's Vorob'yev, dragging his feet; there's Ivan, hauling the box. Vorob'yev rather unnecessarily mouths Hurry up, dammit!, to which Miles responds by accelerating his limping stride as much as possible - not in fact very much; he was already near top speed. His painkillers are not keeping up with their assigned duties.