"No, James, you have a life," he sighed, rubbing at his temples. There were so many machines in here, it was almost obscene. He'd taken to keeping them, more for the company, than anything else. Also for the protection. An unmarked, unlisted cabin in the woods with full power, internet, and tv was suspicious enough, but the few people who knew that Adrian Maskin lived here knew he used it as a his place to go and write.

"I don't want Maskin dead, anyway. I need the identity. It took me ten fucking years to get this all together, and I'm past fifty. I don't have the time to build up a new one! Not if I'm going to do any good with the rest of my life!"