Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light…..

(Dylan Thomas, 1914-1953)

Humming a little under her breath, Nikita stopped in the doorway of Walter's workroom. She smiled fondly at his back, bent intently over the collection of parts he was transforming into his current project. Striking a provocative pose against the doorframe, Nikita put on her best femme fatale growl. "Hey, baby."

Walter did not react immediately. Nikita waited, smiling, knowing this was part of the game. In the next instant he swore softly and tossed away the tool he was holding. It was obvious then that he had not heard her come in.

Slowly, Walter extended his right hand before him, and Nikita watched in bewilderment as the hand shook uncontrollably. Grasping it tightly to his chest with the other hand, Walter bent his head and gave a despairing sigh. Her smile faded. Silently, Nikita drew herself upright in the doorway, unable to make any sense of what she was witnessing, but knowing Walter would not have wanted to be observed. Stealthily she backtracked a short way then clumped loudly toward the door again, breaking into a raucous chorus of Bonnie Raitt as she re-entered the room, bopping and snapping her fingers. "Are you ready for the thang called looove?"

Walter spun around on his stool immediately, a welcoming grin wide on his face. "Hey, Sugar, what's shakin'?" No outward sign of anything wrong. "You know I'm ALWAYS ready," he leered. "Is that an invitation?"

Nikita winked at him, smiling. "You're a dirty old man, Walter."

"A man is only as old as the woman he feels," he quipped in return, quoting Groucho Marx.

Nikita kissed his lined cheek and handed him a disk. "Here's the inventory for tomorrow." She perched on a stool next to him, looking at him closely, trying to make her observation appear casual. "How are you doing today, Walter?"

"I'm overworked and underpaid," he grumped in reply. "How about we take a little vacation, just the two of us?" He grinned lasciviously at her. "I'll be free as soon the briefing for tomorrow is over."

Nikita looked at him curiously. "Where would you go, Walter, if we were allowed vacations?"

The grin faded slowly from Walter's face as he saw she was serious. "Well," he began. "I don't like the tropics and I can't stand crowds." He looked thoughtful. "I guess I might go to the mountains. It would be pretty there. Fresh air. No people. No troubles." He gave her a sly look. "We could make all kinds of noise and nobody would ever hear."

Laughing in spite of her concern, Nikita gave his ponytail an affectionate tug. "Walter, you're relentless." She got up from the stool. "Come on, let's go. I don't want to be late my first time back in harness. Operations might decide to cancel me after all."

She couldn't shake the feeling of unease that followed them from the room.

************

Slipping into her chair at the briefing table, Nikita welcomed the sensation of familiarity and belonging which came over her. Section One was her home; her family. Here, her previously meaningless life had a purpose beyond mere survival on the street. Being outside again recently had convinced her of this, and she no longer cared how much of this conviction was a result of Section programming.

Her gaze traveled around the table, touching on the people seated there. Madeline. Birkoff. Two unknowns. Walter. And Michael. She forced her eyes away from Michael's face, not wanting anyone to catch her looking. That whole matter was still dangerous ground that didn't need any public scrutiny.

Operations arrived then and the group focussed instantly. His pale regard settled on Nikita for several moments. She didn't expect a welcome and he didn't give her one.

With a click, holographic representations of two dark-haired men appeared above the table. "We have been monitoring two fledgling domestic terrorist groups based in the upper midwest. Recent information from a Detroit source indicates that the leaders of these groups have arranged to meet. Although the area has a large Arab population, these groups individually have been slow to gain support, and are generally underfunded. It's likely this is the reason they're now discussing the possibility of merging their resources. We don't want to see this happen, and have decided that now would be an opportune time to clean out this particular litter box."

He switched to a three-D model showing a cluster of tall buildings. "They'll be meeting in the Westin Hotel in downtown Detroit. General Motors has recently purchased this structure and large sections of it have been closed for renovations. The meeting site is in one of those sections. Nikita will take out the targets. Backup will be on site. Birkoff will monitor from here. Check your PDA's for subject ID's." A click; the building model evaporated.

Michael drew a breath then, as if to speak, and Operations pinned him instantly with a piercing look. "Did you want to add anything, Michael?"

It was embarassingly clear to everyone present that Michael and Nikita were not to be teamed, at least not yet. He dropped his eyes, shaking his head silently.

*************

Hiking her panty hose to ease their pinch, Nikita nodded to the red-haired operative watching her. He twisted the handle and pushed back the door , allowing her to exit the van. With a final glance at Walter, who gave her a smiling thumbs-up, she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Radiant heat rose from the concrete in distorted, shimmering waves, and the sunlight stabbed her eyes like shards of glass as she looked up at the Renaissance Center. Located on the bank of the Detroit River, the sleek glass and steel towers rose gracefully to the sky, as if determined to draw all eyes away from the surrounding downtown blight, as yet untouched by revitalization projects. She craned her neck see the top of the center cylinder. The Westin hotel.

Shifting the shoulder strap of her briefcase, Nikita joined the stream of people entering the building, blending easily with the conservatively-suited members of the business community. Inside, the public area was vast. Poured concrete walls were softened by banners, and by yard upon yard of live hanging vines. Musical babble issued from a colorful, tiled waterfall - natural white noise. "Where to now Birkoff?" she said under her breath.

"Keep to the right going around the circle," came Birkoff's voice in her ear. "You'll see an escalator going up to the next level. Elevators should be directly in front of you when you get off the escalator.

Moments later Nikita was shooting upward in the glass elevator, watching the city recede below her and feeling her stomach struggle to catch up. In between staring at the lighted floor numbers, the occupants of the elevator glanced surreptitiously at one another, not speaking. Finally, the last passenger was dropped off. Nikita continued upward alone until she reached the floor below the target location.

The halls were silent as she moved quickly to the stairway and cracked open the door, listening for any activity. She chocked the door open a fraction behind her, then drew her gun and began creeping up the stairs, her back to the wall. At the next landing voices became audible, although she could not make out individual words. "I'm in, Birkoff," she whispered, pausing briefly where she was to listen to the additional layout information he provided.

With her ear glued to the door, Nikita slowly, silently eased the latch open and pushed the door back enough to see through the crack. She could hear no more voices. Her limited field of vision was clear. Gently she opened the door enough to slide through sideways, checking first behind the door. Before she could turn her head the other direction, a hard arm encircled her throat and cold steel pressed her temple. She froze.

"Well, well….what have we here?" His speech was heavily accented and she could not see his face. He raised his voice, calling out unintelligibly. Three more men appeared around the corner, moving quickly to take Nikita's gun and tie her hands behind her. All four were dressed in suits and appeared to be Arab. She watched them silently through narrowed eyes.

The man who had captured her stood ramrod straight, arms crossed, a stern and unforgiving figure of authority. "Where are the rest of your people?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He stepped forward and backhanded her once, snapping her head to the side. She looked back at him insolently, then smiled.

"So, you're a tough little girl." He grasped her by the chin, looking closely into her face. She could see dark hairs growing lushly in his nostrils and was unnaccountably annoyed by the sight of them.

"We know you are from Section One. We have learned from your own sources here that you have been interfering with us. You must be taught that you cannot thwart with the will of Allah."

Nikita snorted. "I think this has very little to do with anyone's will but your own."

"This is what happens when women do not know their place," he replied acidly. "I'm sure your people are listening. You will help them to understand how serious we are."

With that he jerked her by the arm, propelling her ahead of him down the hall to the first doorway they came to. He shoved her roughly through the door, then nodded to the other men. Within minutes Nikita was tied painfully to a straightback chair, watching with growing concern as the men began setting up a device on the far side of the room. She heard a series of electronic beeps, but could see only small glimpses past their backs. With smirking glances her way, they brought the device to a location behind the chair where she could not see what was happening. Finally, the men filed out hurriedly and the leader returned to Nikita. When she continued to look steadfastly ahead, he grabbed a handful of hair and forced her head back to look at him.

"This is a bomb," he enunciated clearly. "In fifteen minutes you will die. Section One will understand our seriousness and dedication."

Nikita spat accurately into the man's face, smiling in satisfaction as it dripped down his cheek. "Tell Allah you want less nose hair in your next life." Her smile widened into a manic grin. "Better run. Don't want to get caught in your own bomb."

With great aplomb, the man drew a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and carefully wiped his face. After pocketing the handkerchief, he turned sharply on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Nikita alone with the softly beeping bomb.

*************

Birkoff sat frozen at his computer. "Oh no," he breathed, tuned in intently on the transmission from Nikita's com unit.

Behind him, Michael was issuing terse instructions to the backup team to pick up the exiting terrorists. Operations joined them.

"What can you see of the bomb, Nikita?" Michael asked, his voice calm and detached.

"Nothing," came her response. "It's behind my chair, I can hear it beeping. He said the time was set for 15 minutes, but I can't see it. Michael, get me out of here."

His face revealing nothing, Michael struggled against the too-familiar vortex of guilt whirling madly in his brain, pulling ever downward. "There isn't enough backup, Nikita," he said in a strained voice. "And no time to send more. We have to pick up the targets first." He closed his eyes. "Then we'll come for you." After it's too late, he added silently to himself. Unable to bear the accusing look on Birkoff's face, he turned away. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not knowing whether she heard him or not.

Operations nodded in approval. Looking up at them, Birkoff sat numbed with disbelief. "Not again," he murmered, "not again." He swung his chair back to the keyboard and began typing rapidly.

Inside the van, Walter listened to the exchange and watched as the two backup operatives exited hurriedly, on their way to intercept the terrorists. There was simply not enough time for them to retrieve Nikita. He drew a single deep breath, then began to move quickly and purposefully around the interior of the van, gathering various items into a small bag. Stopping briefly, he read the message Birkof had sent to the van's computer, then nodded in satisfaction. Lastly, he picked up a com unit, positioning it securely before speaking. His expression was grim.

"OK, Birkoff. It's up to us this time. Get me in there."

**************

With Birkoff's voice an unerring guide in his ear, Walter plowed through the crowd in the Renaissance Center lobby, chafing irritably as he waited for the elevator. He ignored the speculative looks he drew from fellow passengers as the elevator crawled upward with agonizing slowness. Finally, he was there, bursting into the room. Nikita smiled tremulously, nearly crying with relief. "You're a beautiful sight, Walter."

"Yeah, sure, that's what they all say," he replied distractedly, quickly checking her over. "OK, Sugar, let's see what we got here." He knelt to examine the ticking menace behind her chair, breathing heavily after his hasty trip through the hotel. After several moments he sat back on his heels, squeezing her thigh with one hand and looking at her with a wrinkled brow. "OK, here's the good news. They've got you wired to a weight trigger, but I can get around that pretty easily. The bad news is there's a second timer. I'm gonna have to take this baby apart, and there's only about 11 minutes left."

Nikita nodded, her eyes locked on his. No time to waste.

Walter disappeared from sight as he moved behind her chair to work on the bomb. Thirty seconds later she felt him cutting her bonds. She rubbed her wrists gingerly, not willing to stir from the chair until she was sure he was through disabling the weight trigger.

"You're clear now. Get out of here." He clapped her on the back and she vaulted from the chair as though propelled by an electric charge.

She stopped only steps from the door when it was apparent Walter was not following her. "What? Let's go!"

He shook his head, still working with the device. "This thing will take down most of the hotel if it goes off. I have to disable it."

Great. She closed her eyes. "Can you do it in time?"

"Yeah, I think so," he replied, prying the cover loose with a grunt of satisfaction. "Let's see now…."

Returning to the chair, Nikita peered over Walter's shoulder, reading just under ten minutes on the counter. He was concentrating intently on the mechanism before him, muttering under his breath as he sorted through the wires. Finally he looked up and smiled triumphantly. "Got it." He rummaged in his equipment bag and came up with a pair of needle-nosed wire clippers. "Just need to clip the right wires in the right order and we can go home."

"And you DO know the order, right?" she inquired.

He gave her a wounded look in reply and lifted the wire cutters. Nikita watched their wavering path as he maneuvered to capture the right wire within their jaws without contacting anything else. She held her breath, realizing she was seeing the same thing she had come upon the previous day. His hand would not obey.

At last Walter looked up at her, humiliation and concern plain on his weathered face. "I'm having a little trouble here, Sugar. I'd really like you to get out of here now in case I can't do this in time."

Instantly Nikita knelt beside him, shaking her head and reaching to take the wire cutters from his hand. "No. I'm going to help you and we're both going to get out in time." Walter doggedly hung onto the wire cutters. "Don't be stubborn," she said through gritted teeth. Finally, with a worried glance at the timer, he relinquished the tool.

"Feel bad later," Nikita whispered sharply. "Right now, tell me what to do."

Suddenly Michael's voice intruded into their ears. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"It's OK," Nikita replied briefly. "Walter's here. He needs an extra pair of hands to disarm this bomb. We're fine."

"Nikita," Michael said warningly. "Both of you get out, now."

She ignored him, continuing to look at Walter, waiting for instructions. With an effort, Walter drew himself together and began again, sorting the wires. The timer continued ticking as they isolated the connections and Nikita plied the cutters. At last Walter let out a relieved breath. "OK, this is the last one." He glanced at her. "I hope."

Casting him a mortified look, Nikita situated the tool, then closed her eyes and the cutters at the same time.

The digital counter blinked out. It was over.

************

Nikita dropped the last of her equipment in a small pile. She didn't know the heavyset man who was there in place of Walter, and she shivered as she looked at him, wondering if this was some kind of evil premonition. He completed the check-in procedure efficiently and silently, his eyes flicking up to her face repeatedly in tiny jerking motions.

Within a few minutes more, Nikita knocked at Madeline's open door, answering yet another unexplained summons. While waiting she leaned in to peer interestedly at the newly refurbished space.

"Come in, Nikita," Madeline said from behind her desk. "What do you think?" she asked in a disarming tone. She looked around the room and raised her hands in an encompassing gesture.

Nikita strove to keep her face expressionless, trying to decide quickly whether a diplomatic or an honest answer would be better received. "It doesn't seem like you," she finally replied, adding hurriedly, "but it's very…nice." The smile on her lips felt like a grimace.

Madeline nodded, mild amusement visible in her dark eyes. "We all need a change from time to time."

She indicated a chair for Nikita, then came around the desk to stand with her back to a wall of plexiglass-encased blossoms, somehow resembling pressed-flower bookmarks. Privately, Nikita thought it was appropriate that even the flowers in this place were trapped.

"Well, Nikita," Madeline said, suddenly businesslike. "Do you want to tell me what happened in there?"

Nikita continued to look around Madeline's office. Anything to avoid meeting those dark, probing eyes. Madeline waited expectantly.

Finally Nikita sighed and shrugged lightly. "You know me," she said. "I can't resist the chance to save some innocent lives."

Madeline gazed at her steadily, showing not the slightest hint of reaction to the flip answer. Nikita bit her lip uncertainly. The silence grew.

A knock sounded at the door then and Nikita released a silent sigh of gratitude for the interruption. Walter entered the room without speaking and sat down next to her, his expression strangely resigned. The uncomfortable glance they exchanged did not go unnoticed by Madeline.

"Who wants to go first?" Madeline inquired softly. Her eyes moved from one to the other.

Nikita felt a brief instant of indecision, but her fear of Madeline could not overcome her desire to protect Walter. She spoke up in a casual, confident tone. "There were a lot of wires. Walter needed an extra pair of hands to keep things separated while he clipped the right ones, so I stayed to help." Then she added loyally, "I wasn't worried. I knew he could get it done in time."

Madeline nodded, then shifted her penetrating gaze to Walter. He looked at the floor for several moments, then spoke in a slow, lifeless voice. "No. That's not why she stayed."

He lifted empty eyes to Madeline. "I couldn't do it by myself. Nikita disarmed the bomb."

Nikita drew a breath to somehow contradict or at least qualify this damning statement, but Walter was looking at her, shaking his head sadly. "Don't, Sugar," was all he said.

Madeline's eyes never left Walter as she catalogued and considered each tiny nuance of the exchange. Then her face softened and she laid her hand on Walter's shoulder. "Report to Medlab for a complete physical. We'll talk after that."

Walter rose with great effort, as though wading through high water, and made his way silently from the room.

Nikita took a deep, steadying breath. "Madeline," she began slowly. "What is this?" She held her hand out and imitated the tremor she had seen Walter experience. "I'm worried about Walter and I'd like to know what's going on. Please."

Madeline gave no immediate answer, as if she were considering what or how much to say. At last she seemed to make up her mind, and began to explain. "Walter has had Parkinson's disease for several years. It's not life-threatening, but he has apparently reached the point of needing medication to control some of the symptoms. It will limit his ability to do his job. In addition, his hearing has deteriorated, partly the result of his long involvement with demolition work." She paused. "Walter is simply getting older. I won't be surprised to see Medlab turn up a handful of other small problems that have developed since his last physical."

Nikita sat numbly, engulfed in the unexpected and powerful emotional reaction Madeline's words had provoked. In this place, people were functioning perfectly, they were dead, or they were in a repairable state somewhere in between. Nobody ever simply grew old and died. No diminished capacity allowed here. Not for them the logical progression of aging, of looking back on a life of goals attained, wishes fulfilled, families loved. With chilling insight that struck her like a hammer blow, she felt the true depth of the emotional deprivation they lived with. She found herself filled with profound sorrow and regret for all those whose lives had been stolen by Section One.

Madeline watched, guessing the nature of Nikita's thoughts and anticipating her question.

"I'm not going to tell you what happens to personnel who…retire," she said carefully. "What I want you to think about is the relationship between mental state and physical being. Often one can be more debilitating than the other." She returned to her desk chair and sat down, her tone signaling dismissal. "Think about that, Nikita."

Nikita nodded. Her mind turned completely inward, she rose blindly from the chair and left the room.

Madeline picked up her phone and pressed a button. "She knows." Pause. "Yes, I believe so. We'll see where she goes with it." Another longer pause, and a shadow crossed her face. "I agree. It may be our only chance with him." She hung up the phone and sat looking at her wallflowers for a long time.

*************

Nikita rounded the corner into Walter's work area, knowing he would not be there but going in anyway, simply to be there. As she had expected, the space was dark and deserted. She lingered, inhaling the smell of the various solvents, lubricants and unnamed compounds stored in the area. Absorbed in her own reverie, she jumped nervously when Michael spoke from the shadows behind her.

"Walter is still in Medlab. Are you looking for something?"

"No…." she said quickly, then looked away and repeated under her breath, "no."

She was silent for so long then that Michael turned to leave. "Michael - wait." He stopped where he was, looking at her over his shoulder. She took a step closer, needing to talk to him. "Do you know what happens here to people who, say, get sick or get old? Can't do their jobs any more through no fault of their own?" She watched him closely. "Do you know?"

He turned to face her, sighing a little. "No. I don't know."

"Hasn't it ever happened? Didn't you ever ask?"

He didn't answer and Nikita took another step closer. "Didn't you ever even hear a rumor?"

"No. What purpose would it serve to know?"

She took one more step, still studying him curiously. "Didn't you ever wonder anyway? Even if it wouldn't serve a purpose?"

He considered her quietly for several moments. "This is about Walter."

She nodded grimly, relieved and unsurprised that Michael knew.

"What Walter does with his life is his own business, Nikita. You should stay uninvolved." His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "It will be easier for you."

"Is it easier, Michael?" she asked, her gaze holding his and accusing softly. She touched her palm lightly to his chest, then drew back immediately. "I can't stay uninvolved. You know that."

His face registered a melancholy expression; fleeting, then it was gone. "I know," he whispered.

Nikita held that expression in her mind to savor and ponder later. Despite their current strained relationship, she could not keep herself distant from him. By grasping at every hint and clue she could sense, she had convinced herself that he still felt as she did. Long, hard thought had led her to some painful realizations about her own behavior, especially in light of the sacrifices Michael had made for her. She was determined now to somehow rebuild the bridge between them. It would be a torturous process, accomplished in tiny increments, and cemented together with all the trust, consistency and love she could manage.

His cheek was lightly bristled under her lips as she stepped forward and kissed him softly. The subtle gratification on his face was a sweet reward, and lingered long in her mind as she left for Medlab.

************

Walter wearily coaxed a knot into his bandanna. Normally, after a stay in Medlab he was relieved to be back in real clothes again. In his opinion, hospital gowns had been invented by doctors for the sole purpose of controlling and demoralizing their patients. A man who's feeling the chill of air conditioning on his bare ass is at a psychological disadvantage in the presence of a fully dressed doctor. Today, he didn't really care.

He felt a breath of movement, then a hand on the back of his neck, pushing down a tag and sorting out the collars of his shirt and jacket. Nikita leaned around, smiling, and fingered the stubble on his cheek. "Hey, handsome," she cooed. "How are you?"

He could muster only a trace of a smile in response. "You're too late to visit," he said. "I'm on my way out."

She clapped her hands briskly on his shoulders. "Good! I want you to take a look at my new .45. I'm having trouble getting it sighted in."

He sighed deeply. "Yeah, OK. Come on."

Shoulders slumping dispiritedly, he left the room. Nikita trailed him quietly to his workbench, watching as he sat down tiredly and rummaged in a small tool box.

"Walter," she said. "I don't have a gun problem." The rattling in the tool box stopped. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Really? Which one of 'em sent you?"

Nikita sighed. "Oh, Walter. Nobody sent me. Whatever else happens in this place surely you know that I'm your friend. Madeline told me…some things…and I'm concerned about you."

'Well, don't get too concerned," he said in a gruff tone, still with his back turned. "I probably won't be here much longer."

"What do you mean you won't be here - are they going to let you retire or something?"

"Something like that, I suppose," he replied slowly, still with his back turned.

"Don't you know?"

Finally he swiveled around on the stool to face her. "No, Nikita. I don't know. Maybe a nice condo in south Florida. Maybe a bullet in the back of the head. Maybe both." As in Madeline's office, his eyes were frighteningly empty. He gave a macabre grin. "Let's just say I won't be buying any green bananas."

Nikita could hardly meet his eyes. Though she desperately wanted to help him, she had no idea what to do or say. This was all completely outside her experience. "Would you like to retire?" she ventured uncertainly.

He snorted. "What would I retire to, Nikita, if I had that option?" He turned his back to her once more as he went on. "I have no family, no friends. There's nothing but this job, and now I can't even do that. Last I knew, Section One doesn't offer geriatric counseling or outplacement services." He stopped then, and Nikita stood looking at his back, waiting for him to go on. After long moments of silence it became apparent he had nothing more to say.

"Look, you're upset right now," she said in a placating tone. "Things will settle down in little while and you'll be able to think more clearly…." Her voice trailed off. The words were embarassingly banal and Walter deserved better from her.

Nikita crossed her arms, looking at his back resolutely. "All right. Shall I be blunt?"

He glanced around at her, then shrugged uncaringly.

"Here's what I see: You have a condition that's treatable. You still have a lot to offer to earn your keep. You could even teach. But you're afraid Section won't think you're useful enough, and you're worried because you don't know how they'd get rid of you - IF they got rid of you. And they will if you don't stop feeling so sorry for yourself."

He wouldn't look at her. It was impossible to tell how he was reacting to these words. She plunged ahead. "You're depressed. You feel alone. You've convinced yourself that you're old and useless. Maybe you're even thinking that cancellation wouldn't be so bad." She stepped close behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck, speaking more gently now. "Talk to me. That's what friends are for, Walter, even in here. I care what happens to you."

There was a very long silence. Walter's grizzled head bowed forward onto her crossed arms. She could feel his shoulders shaking silently, and she tightened her hug, leaning her cheek onto the back of his neck. Her voice was a whisper. "I love you, Walter."

A moment later one hand came up squeeze her arm gently. He drew a ragged breath, his reply low and despondent, but no longer without hope. "I know, honey. You're the only one who does."

************

Nikita draped the towel around her neck and followed Madeline through the door of her office. She noted in passing that, although the wallflowers were still in their plexiglas prison, Madeline now had an arrangement of fresh flowers on her desk.

She sat down, waiting curiously to learn the reason she'd been pulled from the middle of a workout.

Madeline stood before her desk, idly rearranging the fresh blossoms there. "I thought you'd like to know that Walter is doing very well lately. Mentally and physically."

"Good," Nikita replied uneasily. A progress report on anything from Madeline was too unusual to be taken at face value.

"He's back to work today, in fact," Madeline went on. "He'll be setting you up with equipment for tonight."

Nikita was nodding when Madeline turned to face her, a small smile on her lips. "Congratulations."

She couldn't make a connection. "I'm sorry?"

Madeline sounded very pleased. "You have a natural instinct for taking care of people around you, Nikita. Walter had a problem that would not have responded to intervention through official channels. He needed a friend." The tiny smile reappeared. "We thought you could help him; and you did."

She turned back to her flowers. "Walter is still very valuable to us. In helping him you increased your own value. "

Nikita closed her eyes and sought to push down her rising anger at having been manipulated yet again. For Walter, she reminded herself, for Walter. She looked at Madeline, her tone challenging, nearly belligerent. "What happens when there's no more value? What happens in the end?"

Madeline turned, her face smooth and expressionless. No answer, of course.

Nikita got up and walked toward the door, shaking her head. She paused at the threshold. "What happens to Madeline when she can't get inside heads any more?"

Madeline stared back, appearing momentarily disconcerted, as if she had perhaps never given thought to her own distant future. An instant later her composure was recovered, and her answering smile was touched with admiration. "Then I'll hope to have someone like you near at hand. To be a friend."

******* FINI *******

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night "

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Marlais Thomas (1914 - 1953)

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