"—As I can see from your head, my son, so you're thinking you need to armor up. Come right this way, let's see what we can kit you out with." He yanks the inner door open and pulls me into his little shop of—

You know that scene in The Matrix? When Neo says: "We need guns," and the white backdrop turns into a cross between Heathrow Airport and the back room at a rifle range? Harry's temporary office in the New Annexe Third Floor Extension Security Area is a bit like that, only cramped and lit by a bare sixty-watt incandescent bulb supervised by a small and very sleepy spider.

Harry pulls something that looks like an M16 on steroids off the wall and picks up a drum magazine the size of a small car tire. "Can I interest you in an Atchisson AA-12 assault shotgun? Burst-selectable for single shot or full auto? Takes a twenty-round drum full of twelve-gauge magnum rounds, and I've got a special load-out just for taking down paranormal manifestations—alternate FRAG-12 fin-stabilized grenades, white phosphorus rounds, and solid silver triple-ought buck, each ball micro-engraved with the Litany of Khar-Nesh—right up your street, my son." He racks the slide on the AA-12 with a clattering clash like the latch on the gates of hell.

"Er, I was thinking of something a little smaller, perhaps? Something I could carry concealed without looking like I was smuggling antitank guns on the bus?"

"Wimp." Harry puts the AA-12 back on the rack and carefully stows the drum magazine in a drawer. I can tell he's proud of his new toy, which from the sound of it would certainly blast any unwanted visitor right off my doorstep—and the front path, and the pavement, and the neighbors opposite at number 27, and their back garden too. "So tell me, what is it you really want?"

That's the cue for business: "First, I need to indent for a new class four- certified defensive ward, personal, safe to wear 24/7." I pause. "I also want to draw a HOG, cat three with silvered base and a suitable carrier. And—" I steel myself: "I'll take your advice on the next, but I was thinking about drawing a personal protective firearm—I'm certificated on the Glock—and a box of ammunition. I won't be routinely carrying it, but it'll be kept at home to repel boarders."

"You don't need a Glock to get rid of lodgers, my son." He spots my expression. "Had a problem?"

"Yeah, attempted physical intrusion."

"Hmm. Who else will have access to the weapon?"

I choose my next words carefully: "The house is a level two secure site. The only other resident is my wife. Dr. O'Brien isn't certificated for firearms, but she has other competencies and knows not to play with other kids' toys."