"Right... who are our suspects, then?" He climbs painfully to his feet - curse his damn blisters, curse his damn leg braces, curse his damn legs - and starts pacing, back and forth in a slight curve, orbiting the gravitic pull of the lady's beauty. "The haut So-and-so of Something Ceta now has the sole working copy of the Key. And he's probably none too eager to produce another one, except maybe for his personal use as backup, if he isn't f—isn't imprudently concerned with impregnable security over the risk of catastrophic data loss. Hell, keeping a single copy with no backup isn't even impregnable security, as the Ba Lura so helpfully demonstrated..."