So that’s why I’m jandering back toward The Promise on this cold and rainy early evening. That fragging pocket secretary. Heroes on the trid—and probably in Finnigan’s books, too—never seem to worry about credit when they cut loose from their corp or government or whatever. They always seem able to buy the guns and the grenades and the ammo and the gewgaws—not to mention drinks for the biffs and a room in the hottest hotel—without worrying where the next nuyen’s coming from. Me, I’ve got to skulk on back to my flop to pick up the pocket secretary so I can sell the pecker again—for half what I paid for it a couple of hours ago, you can bet your hoop on that.