Sly leaned against a ferroconcrete wall, in the shadows of a warehouse doorway. Disused, derelict, the place was boarded up, probably condemned for demolition when the city engineers got around to it. The doorway where Sly sheltered had once been sealed up too, but someone had torn off the plastisheet, probably an enterprising squatter who'd used it to construct some stinking hovel in the squat-city that had sprung up at the south end of the docks. The walls were liberally spray-painted with graffiti, and on the door behind her was the spray-painted notice—"Do not enter or you'll die." The trash and empty drug ampoules strewn all around said that not too many people took the warning seriously.