I parked on Twenty-eighth Avenue Southwest, just around the corner from Buddy's place, then tried vainly to run between the heavy-and probably acidic-raindrops that had begun to fall. I gave my name to the doorman/guard in his booth of bulletproof glass, and was reassured when he buzzed me in. At least Buddy was enough with the program to put me on the guard's "okay" list. I rode the elevator to the fortieth floor, where I got off and turned left down the hall. Buddy must have scoped me out with her security systems, decided I was really me, and that I posed no immediate threat. Mechanical locks, bolts, and chains rattled, maglocks snapped open. The door opened a crack. I put on my best reassuring smile. "Hoi, Buddy," I called. "Can I come in?"