said, hating himself for the note of hope in his voice.
"The people at DefenseFest 33 called my office yesterday, to see if I'd appearas a guest speaker with the Patron Ik'Spir Pat. I had to turn them down, ofcourse -- I'm far too busy right now. But I'm sure they'd be happy to have aveteran of your reputation in that slot, and it carries a substantialhonorarium. I could call them for you and give them your comm. . .?"
Hershie thought of Thomas, and of the rent, and of his mother, and of all thepeople at the Belquees who'd stared mistrustfully at him. "Have them call me,"he sighed. "I'll talk to them."
He got to his feet, the toe of his boot squelching out more dirt pudding.
#
"Hershie?"
"Yes, Mama?" She'd caught him on the way home, flying high over the fleabagmotels on the old Highway 2.
"It's Friday," she said.
Right. Friday. He told her he'd come for dinner, and that meant getting therebefore sunset. "I'll be there," he said.
"Oh, it's not important. It's just me. Don't hurry on my account -- after all,you'll have thousands of Shabbas dinners with your mother. I'll live forever."
"I said I'll be there."
"And don't wear that costume," she said. She hated the costume. When theDepartment of Defense had issued it to him, she'd wanted to know why they weresending her boy into combat wearing red satin panties.
"I'll change."
"That's a good boy," she said. "I'm making brisket."
#
By the time he touched down on the roof of his building, he knew he'd be latefor dinner. He skimmed down the elevator shaft to the tenth floor and ducked outto his apartment, only to find the door padlocked. There was a note from thebuilding super tacked to the peeling green paint. Among other things, it quotedthe codicil from the Tenant Protection Act that allowed the super to padlock thedoor and forbade Hershie, on penalty of law, from doing anything about it.
Hershie's super-hearing picked up the sound of a door opening down the hallway.In a blur, he flew up to the ceiling and hovered there, pressing himself flat onthe acoustic tile. One of his neighbours, that guy with the bohemian attitudewho always seemed to be laughing at poor, nebbishy Hershie Abromowicz, made hisway down the hall. He paused directly below Hershie's still, hovering form,reading the note on the door while he adjusted the collar of his ski-vest. Hesmirked at the note and got in the elevator.
Hershie let himself float to the ground, his cheeks burning.
Damn it, he didn't have _time_ for this. Not for any of it. He considered thepadlock for a moment, then snapped the hasp with his thumb and index finger.Moving through the apartment with superhuman speed, he changed into a pair ofnice slacks, a cable-knit sweater his mother had given him for his lastbirthday, a tweedy jacket and a woolen overcoat. Opening a window, he tookflight.
#
"Thomas, I _really_ can't talk right now," he said. His mother was angrilydrumming her rings on the table's edge. Abruptly, she grabbed the bowl ofcooling soup from his place setting and carried it into the kitchen. She hadn'tdone this since he was a kid, but it still inspired the same panicky dread inhim -- if he wasn't going to eat his dinner, she wasn't going to leave it.
"Supe, we _have_ to talk about this. I mean, DefenseFest is only a week away.We've got things to do!"
"Look, about DefenseFest. . ."
"Yes?" Thomas had a wary note in his voice.
Hershie's mother reappeared with a plate laden with brisket, tsimmis, and kasha.She set it down in front of him.
"We'll talk later, OK?" Hershie said.
"But what about DefenseFest?"
"It's complicated," Hershie began. His mother scooped up the plate of brisketand headed back to the kitchen. She was muttering furiously. "I have to go," hesaid and closed his comm.
Hershie chased his mother and snatched the plate from her as she held itdramatically over the sink disposal. He held up his comm with the other hand andmade a show of powering it down.
"It's off, Mama. Please, come and eat."
#
"I've been thinking of selling the house," she said, as they tucked into slicesof lemon pound-cake.
Hershie put down his fork. "Sell the house?" While his father hadn't exactly_built_ the house with his own hands, he had sold his guts out at his discountmenswear store to pay for it. His mother had decorated it, but his father'sessence still haunted the corners. "Why would you sell the house?"
"Oh, it's too big, Hershie. I'm just one old lady, and it's not like there'reany grandchildren to come and stay. I could buy a condo in Florida, and there'dbe plenty left over for you."
"I don't need any money, Mama. I've got my pension."
She covered his hands with hers. "Of course you do, bubbie. But fixed incomesare for old men. You're young, you need a nest egg, something to start a familywith." Her sharp eyes, sunk into motherly pillows of soft flesh, bored into him.He tried to keep his gaze light and carefree. "You've got money problems?" shesaid, at length.
Hershie scooped up a forkful of pound-cake and shook his head. His mother'spowers of perception bordered on clairvoyance, and he didn't trust himself tospeak the lie outright. He looked around the dining room, furnished with fauxchinoise screens, oriental rugs, angular art-glass chandeliers.
"Tell Mama," she said.
He sighed and finished the cake. "It's the new Minister. He won't give me mypension unless I tell him my secret identity."
"So?" his mother said. "You're so ashamed of your parents, you'd rather starvethan tell the world that their bigshot hero is Hershie Abromowicz? I, for onewouldn't mind -- finally, I could speak up when my girlfriends are going onabout their sons the lawyers."
"Mom!" he said, feeling all of eight years old. "I'm not ashamed and you knowit. But if the world knew who I was, well, who knows what kind of danger you'dbe in? I've made some powerful enemies, Mama."
"Enemies, shmenemies," she said, waving her hands. "Don't worry yourself on myaccount. Don't make me the reason that you end up in the cold. I'm not helplessyou know. I have Mace."
Hershie thought of the battles he'd fought: the soldiers, the mercenaries, theterrorists, the crooks and the super-crooks with their insane plots andimpractical apparati. His mother was as formidable as an elderly Jewish womanwith no grandchildren could be, but she was no match for automatic weapons. "Ican't do it, Mama. It wouldn't be responsible. Can we drop it?"
"Fine, we won't talk about it anymore. But a mother _worries_. You're sure youdon't need any money?"
He cast about desperately for a way to placate her. "I'm fine. I've got aspeaking engagement lined up."
#
There was a message waiting on his comm when he powered it back up. A messagefrom a relentlessly cheerful woman with a chirpy Texas accent, who identifiedherself as the programming coordinator for DefenseFest 33. She hoped he wouldreturn her call that night.
Hershie hovered in a dark cloud over the lake, the wind blowing his coatstraight back, holding the comm in his hand. He squinted through the clouds anddistance until he saw his apartment building, a row of windows lit up liketeeth, his darkened window a gap in the smile. He didn't mind the cold, it wasmuch colder in his fortress of solitude, but his apartment was more than warmth.It was his own shabby, homey corner of the hideously expensive city. On theflight from his mother's, he'd found an old-style fifty-dollar bill, foldedneatly and stuck in the breast pocket of his overcoat.
He returned the phone call.
#
The super wasn't happy about being roused from his sitcoms, but he grudginglyallowed Hershie to squirt the rent money at his comm. He wanted to come up andtake the padlock, but Hershie talked him into turning over the key, promising toreturn it in the morning.
His apartment was a little one-bedroom with a constant symphony of groaningradiators. Every stick of furniture in it had been rescued from kerbsides whileHershie flew his night patrols, saving chairs, sofas and even a scarred walnutarmoire from the trashman.
Hershie sat at the ro
und formica table and commed Thomas.
"It's me," he said.
"What's up?"
He didn't want to beat around the bush. "I'm speaking at DefenseFest. Then I'mgoing on tour, six months, speaking at military shows. It pays well. Very well."Very, very well -- well enough that he wouldn't have to worry about his pension.The US-based promoters had sorted his tax status out with the IRS, who wouldhappily exempt him, totally freeing him from entanglements with