ey leaned back and clasped his hands in his lap. "I know that's how it used
to be, but what I'm trying to tell you today is that arrangement, however
longstanding, however well-intentioned, wasn't proper -- or even _legal_. It had
to end some time. You're retired now -- you don't need your _secret identity,_"
again with the finger-quotes. "If you already have a SIN, you can just give it
to me, along with your secret identity's bank information, and we can have your
pension processed in a week or two."

"_A week or two_?" Hershie bellowed. "I need to pay my _rent_! That's not how it
works!"

Woolley stood, abruptly. "No sir, that _is_ how it works. I'm trying to be
reasonable. I'm trying to expedite things for you during this time of
transition. But you need to meet me halfway. If you could give me your SIN and
account information right now, I could speed things up considerably, I'm sure.
I'm willing to make that effort, even though things are very busy here."

Hershie toyed with the idea of demolishing the man's office, turning his lovely
furniture into molten nacho topping, and finishing up by leaving the man
dangling by his suit from the CN Tower's needle. But his mother would kill him.
"I can't give you my secret identity," Hershie said, pleadingly. "It's a matter
of national security. I just need enough to pay my rent."

Woolley stared at the ceiling for a long, long time. "There is one thing," he
said.

"Yes?" Hershie said, hating himself for the note of hope in his voice.

"The people at DefenseFest 33 called my office yesterday, to see if I'd appear
as a guest speaker with the Patron Ik'Spir Pat. I had to turn them down, of
course -- I'm far too busy right now. But I'm sure they'd be happy to have a
veteran of your reputation in that slot, and it carries a substantial
honorarium. I could call them for you and give them your comm. . .?"

Hershie thought of Thomas, and of the rent, and of his mother, and of all the
people at the Belquees who'd stared mistrustfully at him. "Have them call me,"
he sighed. "I'll talk to them."

He got to his feet, the toe of his boot squelching out more dirt pudding.

#

"Hershie?"

"Yes, Mama?" She'd caught him on the way home, flying high over the fleabag
motels on the old Highway 2.

"It's Friday," she said.

Right. Friday. He told her he'd come for dinner, and that meant getting there
before sunset. "I'll be there," he said.

"Oh, it's not important. It's just me. D