I swing my legs—chilled and very uncomfortable—off the bed and reach for my portable telecom. The Wenonah—"security building" or not—never had any security for private apartments: no cameras or sensors, not even a viewer in the fragging door. For obvious reasons, I rectified the situation when I moved in. Set into the door frame over the door is a tiny videocam and microphone arrangement set to narrowcast a data stream on a frequency jiggered to my telecom. I hit the keys on the keyboard, thanking whatever spirits—or my own laziness, or whatever—didn’t let me power the thing down. The screen lights up and I can see what that tiny hidden videocam is seeing.