“Go on in,” the man prompted. “Sit down and wait.”

Sam walked through the door, seeing no other visible way into or out of the bare-walled cubicle of a room. The only piece of furniture was a steel-framed chair fitted with soft, slick cushions. When he sat down, the door closed, apparently of itself, and he heard the lock engage. Sounds from the street had filtered into the shop, but no trace disturbed the quiet of this little room. He waited patiently for five minutes, by his watch. Then he waited another ten impatiently before a voice spoke to him.

“I do not know your face. Who are you?”

Sam could not discern the source of the voice, but he was sure it was electronically processed to change its characteristics. The person behind the voice would be none other than Cog.

“Twist.”

“Dodger’s friend?”

“That’s right.”

The fixer was silent for a moment. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

In reply, Sam merely shrugged, sure that his disembodied questioner could see the gesture, If the fixer had heard that Sam was dead, perhaps Drake had, too.

“Do you have proof of who you say you are?”

Sam shrugged again. “Dodger said you were a good connection.”

“Now I know you are lying.”

“Dodger said that you’d say that.”

A thin chuckle. “Perhaps you are Twist. If so, you have proven remarkably resilient. Perhaps we can do business. What can I do for you until we establish your bona fides?”

“I need some cash and a place to stay. And I need an identity.”

“And in exchange?”

Sam pulled his trade goods from the pocket of his vest and held them up one by one. “An I.D. packet for one Edward Vinson. A credstick tagged to Samiel Voss. A pair of data chips, late of a small genetic research firm just north of here.”

“The last is a recent acquisition?”

Sam smiled inwardly at the hint of interest seeping through the modulated words. “Very.”

“Place them under the chair.”

“I’m supposed to trust you with it?”

“Dodger said I was a good connection.”

“So he did.” To Cog, Sam was a stranger, possibly a corporate plant or just a hustler peddling a sharp deal. The fixer wanted to verify the material, but he offered no surety. Trust could only be built on trust, and someone had to take the first step. Sam didn’t want to trust a faceless voice, but his need outweighed caution. He put the chip case and the cards on the floor and slid them under the chair. “Now what?”

He got no answer. Then realized that was his answer. Leaning to look under his seat, he saw that his goods were gone. He straightened and settled back to wait.

Lofwyr had supplied the Edward Vinson identity. In giving it up, Sam was throwing away a potentially useful resource. The fictional Vinson had a townhouse in Seattle proper, a comfortable and nondemanding Matrix research slot with Aztechnology, and a System Identification Number that would have allowed Sam easy passage through most of the metroplex. Without that SIN, Sam was barred from some of the places where he hoped to hunt Drake. But with it, Lofwyr would likely be able to monitor everything Sam did within the public Matrix, tracking his use of facilities and observing any financial transactions Sam made using the identity. Until Vinson evaporated, he could open doors, but evaporation was a good possibility after Sam had used Lofwyr’s chip to access Genomics research files. He had done it even though sure the Dragon would object. To punish Sam, Lofwyr might make Edward Vinson vanish, leaving Sam high and dry at some Lone Star checkpoint or corporate security desk.

Trust and caution at war again.

The Dragon had helped Sam because he wanted something from Sam. And when Lofwyr had that, then what? A reward of money, safety, teaching, and assistance in finding his sister. Would the Dragon keep his word?

If Lofwyr were trustworthy, his offer would stand after Sam settled with Drake, whether or not he used the Vinson identity. If Lofwyr trusted him, no problem, If Lofwyr didn’t trust him, the Dragon might consider Sam’s sale of the identity a theft of property. Who could know what a Dragon might think?

Caution argued that he was better off making it harder for anyone, including Lofwyr, to track him. Caution suggested he was safer if his benefactors did not know his plans and actions. Caution warned him to trust no one but himself. That was why Sam had come to Cog. Caution’s voice was more insistent than trust’s.

Now waiting here in the quiet little room, he was having second thoughts. Lofwyr had done him no harm. Why was Sam so reluctant to trust the Dragon? Had his experiences with Tessien soured him against all of their breed? Or was he just reacting to the beast’s alien nature? Sam didn’t like to think he could surrender so easily to such prejudice.

He had been raised to believe that all sentient creatures had souls and that the soul was what separated them from animals. But in his interview with Lofwyr, Sam had sensed a cold ruthlessness as though humanity were his plaything. Did Dragons believe that only their kind had souls? Or did they even believe in souls at all?

His father had taught him to judge each person individually, but the elder Verner had never met a Dragon. The United Nations recognized at least three kinds of draco forms as intelligent beings and thereby entitled to full rights under international law, but that didn’t mean Dragons thought and acted like normal Humans. Who could ever know or understand them?

A slight hiss from the hidden speaker cut off his ruminations.

“My apologies for the delay, Twist.”

Sam mentally scrambled back into his street-wise attitude. “So I am who I say?”

“Let us say that I do not dispute your claim at this moment and that we may do business. Your offerings seem legitimate, though Mr. Vinson is a somewhat transparent construct.”

Whether or not Lofwyr were trustworthy, Sam doubted he would hand out inferior tools. “You know as well as I do that the I.D. is solid, Cog. But nothing lasts forever, right? You might want to move it along.”

“I see. That does reduce its value accordingly.”

“What’s your offer?”

There was a slight hesitation, as though Cog were put off by Sam’s abrupt descent to the bottom line. “Have a look under your chair.”

Sam’s questing hand found an envelope. Opening the rough plastic seal, he pulled out a resume for one Charley Mitchner, a disability pensioner. The other sheet of paper read “2,000, nuyen” in typescript. The resume looked good to Sam. Low-profile and totally unremarkable. A Mister Nobody was just what he needed, but the cash offer was too low. “You can do better, Cog. There was more cash on the credstick.”