Vissile 9

"Do you think the weather will hold, or get worse?" Bethany asked Khaz anxiously. Her friend, preoccupied with the all-important scarf, continued staring into the mirror, and merely shrugged. "I never said I would come at all. Suppose he's given my place to someone else," Bethany frowned. "He wouldn't," Khaz answered, untying and re-tying the scarf around her forehead. "Suppose he's not going because I didn't tell him I was," Bethany continued. "Call him on the phone and find out," Khaz suggested. She was arranging a sweep of the magic fabric over her shoulders. "Absolutely not!" Bethany exclaimed, "I can't imagine a more humiliating conversation than that one." "Well, then you'll just have to chance it," Khaz concluded. She had gotten to arranging the view of the city which settled strategically across her bustline. Moxy! What sort of revenge could she plot against him wicked enough for having inflicted this on her? She cursed quietly as she drew a length of sparkling cloth around her waist. Mischief with Moxy. A delicious thought. She dropped the last length of scarf along her leg, wrapped it one last time and tucked it into her suede boot top. As Moxy had promised, it fit perfectly. Now for the final test. Khaz walked under the brilliant light cast from the crystal-hung ceiling lamp. "Well, is it doing the three-dimensional bit?" she asked Bethany. "Wow. Amazing. Unbelievable," her friend replied. "Does that mean yes?" Khaz asked. "Yes," Bethany answered, "definitely, astonishing, really." "I'm going to spend the most nervous evening of my entire professional life waiting for an announcement to be made in front of half the state. And meanwhile, total strangers will be staring at my chest," Khaz complained. "That happens anyway," Bethany teased her. "Very funny," Khaz remarked, turning again to the mirror, "what do you think of the dress underneath it?" "It's perfect," Bethany assured her. Khaz had been surprised to find, after sampling dozens of fabrics, that black taffeta worked best with the scarf. She supposed the light rebounded off its glossiness, back onto the scarf, enhancing the lighting effect. The dress was plain and closely tailored wherever the scarf was featured. The skirt was very short in front, revealing opaque tights on her legs, her best feature she thought, and long and flowing in the back, to give a formal look. She didn't much care for the asymmetry, but it actually balanced out the effect of the scarf fairly well. No inspiration to the design. Just a lot of trial and error, and hard work. She looked in the mirror one last time. From a general perspective, she seemed socially acceptable. From a personal perspective, she felt as if she were wearing a major tourist attraction, a feeling somewhat akin to being clad in the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the National Cathedral, perhaps. A knock at the door from the housekeeper alerted them to the arrival of their bodyguard. Each of them took several deep breaths before heading downstairs, but Khaz was careful not to disturb the scarf as she did so. Bethany had been asking all week who amongst TD's police buddies would be working, but they all kept saying that the evening schedule wasn't set yet and they weren't certain. When she got to the front sitting room, she was surprised to find an older man waiting for them. At first, she didn't recognize him out of uniform, couldn't place where she'd seen him before. And then she realized it was Phil Maldonne, chief of police for the Dare Clinics Foundation and head of the EMS response team. Khaz walked straight up to him and clasped hands with him, saying "Chief Maldonne, how are you? Moxy Youngblood introduced us one evening." As they were shaking hands, Bethany had a good look at him. He was silver haired and mustached, ruggedly handsome, and looked like a sheriff from a Hollywood picture. His carefully preserved suit seemed to date from about 1947, and the gentleman wore it with the confidence of someone who had grown up in an era when men actually were expected to show up to dinner in dinner jackets without being told. The neat fit of his clothes was a tribute to his physical condition. Police work must be a fairly vigorous occupation, Bethany reflected, and then wondered whether Teddy ever regretted leaving his former profession. There! That was the first time since they quarreled that she had called him "Teddy", even in her imagination. Maybe she was through feeling angry with him. TD had sent a driver in his Phantom to pick them up. Maldonne understood that they would be taking the helicopter to the Governor's mansion, but that the return trip was still in doubt because of the possibility of stormy weather later in the evening. The three of them were to join the others of the party at the airfield, at a small coffee shop called "Beau Jay's by the Runway", a popular place with the pilots. The setting as they approached looked very incongruous with the evening clothes of the group. The roundly robust proprietress of Beau Jay's greeted them at the front, giving Maldonne a great smack of a kiss, and bellowing heartily "Phil, you old heartbreaker, don't you look snazzy, my dear!" She linked arms with him, and Khaz followed them to the next room. Bethany had been distracted by the view of the brilliant lights as they glittered across the airfield, and then by the windsock flowing excitedly with a fairly brisk wind. A digital display just inside the plate glass window offered a reading of current wind velocity and direction, and underneath a continuous stream of temperature and weather conditions in various cities around the planet. After dreamily thinking about some of the places she could be this evening, she broke away from the evocative read-out and turned to join the others. And there stood Ted Dare, waiting for her. Previously, he had thought of a dozen different ways to greet her, and had ranked them on paper from best to worst. Then, when Khaz and Maldonne came to the table without her, the whole plan crashed to the ground with the notion that she hadn't come at all. Maldonne suggested otherwise, with a nod and a wink toward the front. At this reversal of his disappointment so suddenly, all of TD's plans dispersed in confusion and he was left with a single dominant idea that was not on his list at all. He hugged and kissed Bethany fervently, and said "I'm glad you came." She smiled at him and said, "me too," and held his hand in hers. Their disagreement was quietly tabled for consideration at some later time. Dare approved of the plan thoroughly. "What a pretty dress that is," he told her. She seemed to be rising out of a dewy rose-hued cloud of rustling fabric. "Have I seen it before?" he looked puzzled. "No, it's new," she told him, laughing a little. He couldn't quite figure what the joke was, and it teased at the back of his mind somewhat, like a face he recognized introduced with an unfamiliar name. "Do you remember these?" she asked him, touching her neck delicately. "Certainly. Biggest executive decision of my life," he replied. They were a string of cultured pearls he had bought for her birthday, back when he was a police cadet. They were not very valuable, although they had taken a considerable chunk of his monetary resources at the time. As he escorted her to their table, he pondered the unaccountable whim that prompted her to wear them. He had given her many finer, more expensive gifts of jewelry since then. Why choose that one? He discarded as uncharitable the idea that she wanted to humble him. Dare concluded instead that it was merely a lady's sentimentality. The group gathered around the table, Dare, Maldonne, Benjamin Orry and Moxy Youngblood, Katya Borgan, Mrs. Grandham, Khaz and Bethany. They drank coffee and chatted cheerfully until the pilot came back to get them. Then the men stood in a group, discussing the endlessly fascinating topic of flight weather. Because of patient transport, all of them had enough experience on the subject to have an opinion, but of course deferred to the pilot's expertise. His main concern appeared to be giving the ladies an overly rough ride. Little Mrs. Grandham swayed them all in a moment when she piped up, "I hope you gentlemen are not plotting to deprive us of the evening's chief excitement!" At that, the men smiled and shrugged, and the decision was made to take off. As the group headed out onto the tarmac, Khaz took a good look at Moxy. She wanted to see how he dressed-out in her design. Of course, the evening clothes suited him perfectly. His mane of black hair and mysterious gray eyes were set off wonderfully by the starkly contrasting darks and lights of the outfit. But something was definitely wrong. Khaz was shocked at Moxy's expression, which could be best described as grim determination. She wondered what there was in the situation to disturb him so thoroughly. While Dare was leading the group, the pilot had dropped back with Moxy. Khaz lingered just ahead of the two, trying to catch a bit of their conversation. The pilot spoke a steady stream of reassuring noises, as if attempting to coax an injured animal to accept veterinary care. He said "just tell yourself you're in charge, that you can fasten and unfasten the damned thing whenever you like. Savvy? Sorry, kiddo. I hate this more than you do. But I can't let you rattle loose with Dare on board. And a payload of civs to boot. You okay? You're not going to lose lunch, huh, or pass out on me, are you, kid? Hang on. Almost there. Let me do the talking. That's it. Easy does it. Here we go, now..." Of course, Khaz remembered. Fear of fasteners. Poor Moxy! Brave and bold in the most dangerous situations, but terrified witless of a seat belt. Who else knew? She wondered about the group in front of her. Orry for certain. But he was carefully attentive elsewhere, avoiding the kid on purpose, she supposed. She concluded that none of the rest of them were in on the secret. She walked more briskly forward. They had reached a row of helicopters, very strangely shaped, even to Khaz's untrained eye. On the side of the first helicopter appeared the designation "Terpsicorp-Dare URH99" and underneath this, "Lithe Lavinia." They walked past "Dainty Dancer", "Wilma Waltzer", "Ballet Beauty", and "Jessica Jazz". The farthest out, "Gymnast Gem" looked to have dropped her drawers. The whole central underside seemed to be open and spilled out onto the paving. As they all stood staring at the lighted opening, the pilot brushed past towing Moxy, disappeared inside, and moments later reappeared, Moxyless. "I'm borrowing the kid for co-pilot," he said with indisputable authority, and then tempered the statement to Dare with the explanation, "we never get enough time to confab with the kid about the computers." Eyebrows raised, Dare seemed to weigh the statement a moment before he nodded. The pilot smiled at them genially, as if welcoming them into his home, and said, "follow me." The inside of the compartment required no steps upward. Easy access for stretchers, Khaz figured. The whole center floor was featureless, confirming this as the treatment area. A single, softly padded bench ran along the entire outer perimeter of the compartment. The pilot placed the four ladies equally distant apart at the back run of bench, and the three men at the forward part. Then the compartment rose majestically off the ground and sealed into the ceiling. Next, the pilot handed out headgear. Khaz decided rapidly she would have to stow her scarf, since the headgear constituted obligatory hearing protection. Maybe she would coward-out and leave the scarf off permanently, she thought. Now the pilot's voice came to them over their headsets. He issued them each a wrist band control, and explained that they could direct their conversation to specific individuals with these. Next he explained that the benches had measured their weights but would not reveal the information to the rest of the company. After allowing the polite laughter to fade, he told them that their weights would be optimally distributed, and in a few moments, the on-board computer would spit their safety gear out and lock it in place. They then were to slide to the gear nearest their current locations and harness-in. He told them that the computer allowed harness transit, but since current personnel had no medical responsibilities, he would appreciate their staying in their assigned places. This would optimize the smoothness and speed of the ride. True to prediction, there was a noise in the wall, and the safety harnesses came issuing forth. Khaz slid into her seat. The harness was actually a lightweight vest of seemingly endless elasticity that allowed her plenty of play to squirm about, even after it was fastened. "We'll be getting underway soon, enjoy the view," the pilot told them and ducked through an upward opening in the forward wall which sealed shut after him. Khaz wondered what view the pilot meant. The only thing she could see was the rest of the group, who all, even Ted Dare, wore the excited look of passengers on a roller coaster ride as it was about to commence. The overhead motor sprang to life with more vibration than noise, thanks to the headgear. She had a minute or two to adjust to the sensation of simultaneous whole body massage. Then the pilot's voice came over the headset, saying "hello folks. We're good to go, up and out." Khaz had the sensation of being sucked into a giant overhead vacuum, head first, with her stomach following after a dramatic pause. Oh, the view. The entire floor of the aircraft appeared to be a display of what was shrinking beneath them. Crisper in detail than a daylight window would have offered. TD' s voice was warning them to close their eyes if they felt dizzy. The view kept focusing downward, no matter how high they rose, giving miniscule details as they whisked past. As their forward speed increased, the view down became uncomfortable. Khaz closed her eyes a moment and when she opened them, focused on her companions. Using her wrist control, she eavesdropped on Benjamin Orry and TD. They were having an animated discussion that featured the words "torque", "tilt-rotor", and "turbine". Mrs. Grandham was chatting with Chief Maldonne. He told her that he would like to see Europe again, but somehow never got around to it. Mrs. Grandham then described to him her latest Atlantic Crossing by sea, as calmly and cheerfully as if she were entertaining a gentleman visitor in her parlor. Bethany had admired Katya Borgan's brocaded gown and Katya was explaining to her interested listener the history of the dress and the grandmother who had given it to her. Once started contemplating the topic of attire, Khaz continued, considering each member of the group with a critical professional eye. Of course, she had to mentally erase the headgear from people's appearance. Mrs. Grandham was in the height of fashion, dressed in a dusty turquoise shade with just a silvery hint at the neck line. Khaz attributed the gown to a colleague she knew in California, and issued her stamp of approval. Circling clockwise, she came to Maldonne. His suit certainly was genuine post-World War II vintage. Khaz delighted in elegant old clothes if they were well preserved. All that was required of the wearer was a confident bearing, which Maldonne possessed. Another unqualified approval. Next came TD. Perfection as always. Tall, broad shouldered, narrow at the hips, he was a dream to dress. Khaz remembered that his last year's evening clothes had been seized upon by the Clinic auxiliary and sold at a celebrity fund raising auction. She also imagined that TD hated but tolerated the practice, because it was an invasion of his sternly guarded privacy, but undeniably a worthy cause close to his heart. Khaz turned her attention to Benjamin Orry. A challenge in design, looming large before her eyes. She concluded that the doctor had borrowed TD's clever tailor. She knew the man and found his work conservative but impeccable. She also concluded that TD's tailor knew of Orry's army career. If you have a monumental subject, might as well militarize it. An admirable solution. Instead of trying to minimize the massive man, give him a uniform and salute him. The somewhat military cut of Orry's dinner clothes suited him exactly, she decided. Now Khaz considered the ladies to her right. Katya Borgan. Not only a medical doctor, but a department head. That could prove intimidating to conversation. She could easily find herself excluded from idle chatter, or worse, listening to sufferer's symptoms all night. But her gypsy features and exotic attire suggested nothing but violins and fragrant glasses of wine. Bethany, an avid gardener, was now discussing hothouse flowers with Katya. The doctor's dress was a success, Khaz concluded. Bethany's, too. Khaz had given the simple rose-hued gown little frosty touches that glistened with the flow of it. Whatever her friend had hoped the dress to evoke in TD apparently had materialized for her. Very satisfactory. Khaz would not kill her career by appearing in company with them all, she decided. Now it occurred to her to worry about Moxy up front and out of her sight. If he indeed had "lost his lunch", she hoped it wasn't onto his new jacket. What if he were now too sick to come to the event? She would be left wearing the scarf and shrugging her shoulders to the oft repeated question of "how does it work?" Unbearable. "How selfish of you," she scolded herself. She hoped for his sake this time, that Moxy was not as miserable as he had started out looking. The pilot's voice now sounded in their headsets, "folks, we've arrived and we're setting down. Oopsy daisy." With that warning, they plummeted. Only slightly alarmed, Khaz watched the tiny landing square atop a tall building rush up to meet them. The pilot hovered and then set them down with an astonishingly delicate touch that was nothing like a jet airplane landing. "That's it folks. Have fun at the party, and give the Gov my best regards," he told them cheerfully. The compartment rumbled and then lowered them to the rooftop surface. While they were extricating themselves from their safety gear, Orry seemed to be talking over his headset to the pilot. Meanwhile, Dare was escorting the rest of the party out onto the skyscraper roof, showing them some of the views. Khaz stayed behind, worriedly watching the doctor. He rummaged in one of the many overhead compartments and extracted a length of plastic line with attached oxygen mask. "He'll be okay in a minute. Go cover for us, would you? Tell the others we're helping shut down and we'll be right out," Orry told her. Khaz nodded and reluctantly left. The front compartment door of the helicopter unsealed, and the pilot climbed down. He reached up and dragged Moxy after him. Orry helped lower the kid supine onto the bench. The pilot shook his head, "man, he wasn't kidding about that phobia of his, was he? Cold as cucumbers." Orry agreed "that's Moxy for you. I've never known anyone else ever before who only had two levels of consciousness. Either 'on' or 'gone'. There's nothing in between." The doctor flicked his fingers briskly against the kid's maxillary prominence, "come on, Moxy, wake up now. How long has he been out?" he asked. The pilot replied "couldn't say. He just fastened in, curled up tight, and never made so much as a squeak." "Well, let's try a couple of liters of oh-two," the doctor suggested, starting the flow of oxygen and applying the mask to the kid's face. The pilot shook his head, "terrified of a seat belt! Never heard of such a thing. What a difference. He's up with me lots. Scared of nothing. Talks a mile a minute. All over the computers. Loves the 'Dancers'. Can't get enough of them. But look at him now. I just should have left him rattling. But it made me nervous breaking reg with Dare next door." Orry rummaged in another overhead compartment, and found what he was looking for. He raised the oxygen mask a moment, and broke the vial under Moxy's nose. The kid made a choking sound, coughed, and Orry dropped the mask back over his face. "Trying to strangle me?" Moxy's voice came muffled through the mask. "That's more like it," the pilot sounded relieved. Moxy's eyelids fluttered open, and he sat up, "are we there yet?" he asked. The pilot laughed out loud. "Don't say I didn't warn you," Moxy told him, shrugging. He pulled the mask off and handed it to Orry who shut down the flow. "Did we miss the dance?" the kid asked him. "No, still to come," the doctor replied. "Rats. Too bad. Oh well, better get it over with," Moxy grinned at Orry. The kid stood up, and the doctor steadied him, "how do you feel?" "I'll make it. But don't ask me to waltz," Moxy told him. "It's a deal," Orry responded. The pilot shook hands with them both before they walked out, and thumped the kid on the back as he left. Orry pondered the pilot's comments about Moxy. Work assignments for the kid came directly from Orry's office. Transport was always clamoring for the kid's work on their computers. Orry wondered how much of the software was Moxy-programmed rather than the original designed for the "Dancers", and how risky it might now be. Auto-stabilization coming unstuck mid-rescue was an ugly thought, for example. Orry shuddered. But he could see how Moxy had taken over, gradually, insidiously getting into the works. Beau Jay's by the Runway. They all would have been sitting over coffee. The Dare foundation pilots, police and paramedics. And one of them would complain about some idiosyncrasy of the "Dancers". And then somebody would say "wish we could fix the X-to-do-Y. And then Moxy would speak up and say "no problem. We-could-get-them-to-do-that." Orry could just picture that expression the kid got on his face that silently but eloquently said "this is so simple, ask me to do something difficult, why don't you?" And then, the kid would go set it up so that X-would-do-Y. The pilots really had to want his help to allow Moxy airborne on the "Dancers" routinely without buckling in. While Orry was pondering the matter of regulations, he wondered what had become of the "X" in the "Dancers' " designation. Last time he had looked, they had been URHX, X for experimental. How had Dare pulled that maneuver off, he wondered. They looked to be still works in progress to Orry, with the kid "rattling loose" on the inside. Next time they wanted Moxy, Orry would think twice about sending him. Who was Orry kidding? The doctor told himself, if the kid wasn't risking life and limb sans safety gear in an experimental helicopter, he'd be doing it dangling cliffside, or somewhere else. Wherever he happened to be, in fact. Natural born thrill-seeker combined with male teenager. Lethal combination. Maybe Moxy would survive long enough to outgrow the trait. Maybe not. As Orry and the kid approached the group, Khaz rushed to meet them. She latched onto Moxy like she had no intention of letting him out of her sight the rest of the night. Orry figured they were all in for a rental car ride now. But no. Dare must have sent his chauffeur and limousine up earlier to wait for them. Or did the Clinic maintain one at the capital, full-time? So they traveled to the Governor's mansion in high style. Mrs. Grandham was interested to hear about the architecture of the building. Its famous profile was brightly lit against the skyline ahead. From explaining a bit of its history to her, Maldonne got to telling her ghost stories about the place. The wing that dated from the early Spanish mission first in that location was haunted by an Indian princess looking for revenge against the soldiers who had killed her one true love. The elegant central portion of the building, positively rococo with gold leaf and crystal chandeliers, dated from the gold rush era. This part contained the grand ballroom they would be entertained in this evening. After hours, its cavernous shadows and massive echoing halls were said to be walked by the souls of several dead miners who had lost their lives in a massive cave-in. The owner of the mine, a governor in centuries past, had refused to spend money on excavating the bodies. The dead miners were said to walk the mansion ever since, moaning and groaning, unsuccessfully petitioning for their rights from each administration in turn. The wing that housed office staff had been built of native rock quarried from nearby cliffs during the boom era that saw the height of the cattle barons and the arrival of the railway. At night, this wing supposedly was home to a whole forest's worth of spirit animals. Cougar, wolf, bison, among others, whose pounding hooves and howling could be heard from time to time, apparently voicing resentment over the rock quarrying and timber felling of their former habitat. Mrs. Grandham shivered with delicious anticipation. How far would they be allowed to walk inside? Could they go ghost hunting in any of the quieter halls, the little widow lady wanted to know. If she was eager to try it, Maldonne was ready, willing and able to be her escort. The weather seemed to anticipate the ghoul-seeking expedition. Lightning flashed in weird silver and green casts, beckoning to the ghostly cloud masses tearing across the skies. The earth rumbled with distant thunder that might well represent an entire heard of spirit bison. And the howling wind could be the ghost wolves and cougars replying. The great brick driveway approached the majestic front of the mansion in a sweeping crescent. One of the governors long since dead and buried, in a grandiose display of the wealth of the territory that was petitioning for statehood, had placed a solid gold brick into the driveway near the front staircase of the building. The original brick was still there, according to official souces. That square of driveway was cordoned- off with a guard posted next to it, who also served as a sort of armed doorman. Various stories held different governors responsible for having dug up the real gold brick surreptitiously and replaced it with a painted dummy. Because of the rain, the limousine pulled up to a covered side entrance. Mrs. Grandham was very disappointed at not being able to view the famous brick, which was situated near the grand front entrance to the mansion. Maldonne gallantly offered to obtain an umbrella, and walk with her to see it after the ball, when getting their feet wet would be less of a liability. Security at the entrance was polite but tight. They all walked individually through an array of detection devices and then Dare described his party to the secretary-receptionist greeting them inside. She noted their arrival carefully in a bound guest book which they signed. Theodore Wainwright Dare escorting Mrs. Grandham, Moxy Youngblood escorting Dr. Katya Borgan, Bethany Berke with her escort Philip Maldonne, and Jane Khaziamiere with her escort Dr. Benjamin Orry. Nowhere on the guest list was Praestigiator furtivus listed. Which was not so much an oversight on the part of the Governor's invitations committee staff. Because Moxy Youngblood had not mentioned to anyone that he had used the Juggler's help on the Saraste competition project. Indeed, ever since his collaboration with the Colonel's military associates on their polymer research, he had found the Stealthy little fellow's assistance in the laboratory more and more useful, until it became indispensable. So it was not surprising that Moxy borrowed some of Praestigiator's molecular machinery to synthesize the special fibrils that were integral to the scarf. Khaz's magic image-projecting fabric was heart and soul the expression of the Stealthy Juggler's vital force. Praestigiator furtivus was making its debut in high society this evening. And everyone from the Governor to the eagerly suspicious security force, to the artists and engineers, scientists and elegant stylish upper crust people who had come to be entertained by a view of the odd intellectuals, all were oblivious to the presence of the Stealthy Juggler in their midst. The small greeting room with its dark wood paneling, huge antique desk and grandfather clock, opened into a somewhat larger receiving room that held formal chairs and loveseats upholstered in burgundy velvet. Crystal wall and ceiling lamps cast golden light in long angles upon the elaborate wallpaper. The huge throw carpet was two inches thick of hand loomed wool in an intricate pattern depicting the indigenous mountain dwelling flowers. Old prints and watercolors of botanical subjects hung in gilt frames. This room opened onto a long hall with a hundred heavy gold framed mirrors. Dozens of high double framed hardwood doors opened from the hall into the ballroom. This grand apparition generated gasps of astonishment from those members of the party who were viewing it for the first time, and smiles at their friends' enjoyment from those who had seen it before. Huge frescoed ceiling paintings offered images of the state's most spectacular views, mountain peaks and spires, waterfalls glittering in misty rainbows, river rapids crashing through magnificent towering forests, and meadows overgrown with bright wildflowers. The central chandelier, hanging in row upon row of faceted crystal drops, looked large enough to crush a small township beneath its weight if it were to fall, and guests had a tendency to hurry to another place if they happened to find themselves underneath its mass for more than a breath or two. The four corners of the room each had a smaller version of the main chandelier, and hundreds of crystal-hung lamps lined the walls. The wallpaper featured velvet flock and gilt leaves. Every space that was not otherwise occupied featured yet another elaborate gold framed mirror. The floor was hardwood parquet in a complex, extensively repeating geometric pattern, waxed and polished to such glossiness as to rival the reflectivity of the mirrors and crystal. The very size of the room was emphasized by the powerful echo of the place and the view of guests at the opposite side of the room, dwarfed by the distance. A full orchestra was already regaling them with Strauss waltzes, and other famous dance pieces. The upper stories looked down upon the ground floor from dizzying heights. These featured little outcroppings like theater boxes, where guests could stand at intricately carved hardwood railings and view the festivities from fantastically high vantage points. Mrs. Grandham wanted to ascend to the very highest, never mind how many of the spiral stairs she would have to climb, and Maldonne was cheerfully ready to make the climb with her. A strategic exchange of partners at this point left Ted Dare with an arm free to offer to Bethany Berke. She accepted this with a warm flush to her cheeks. So far, Dare's plan for the evening was succeeding to expectation. Better, actually, since nowhere in his imaginings had he calculated on Phil Maldonne sweeping Mrs. Grandham off her feet. That sly old silver fox. Must be something in the air, Dare thought. Orry had already found a glass of punch for Katya Borgan, and was standing as close to that lady as he could without swallowing her whole. She was only of medium height and of a wispy breadth. Orry was staring down at her so intently, it was a wonder the look didn't burn a smoky patch in the floor beyond them. Orry, falling hard. Brace yourself for impact. When the big man goes down, earthquakes will result. Bethany must have followed TD's thoughts. "They look cute together, don't they?" she commented. Ill-assorted. Oddly mismatched, Dare would have said. He couldn't quite stifle the expression on his face. She slapped his arm playfully, "I think it's sweet. They're just perfect for each other. Both of them so smart and serious, and both of them so nice." "And nearly the same size, give or take a mile and a ton," TD teased her. Teddy must be in a strange mood to be teasing, Bethany thought. She hummed softly with the orchestra. Couples had started dancing. A few, anyway, probably designated pairs under strict orders from the Governor to start things off. Bethany strolled in that direction. TD was willing to take the hint. He had been afflicted with cotillion during his formative years. Might as well reap the benefits of all his earlier suffering, he reflected wryly. The payback being that he could please his partner without looking a fool. Definition of dancing. An excellent excuse to hold a member of the opposite sex, meanwhile ignoring the rest of the company assembled. Dare danced with Bethany. There was a wonderful scent rising from her warmth as he held her. He made a mental note to find out what fragrance she was wearing, so he could buy it for birthdays, Valentine's Day, and all such calendarly designated events. In his mind's eye, she swirled in petal hues and fell softly back onto some yielding surface, and the scent pulsed with the upbeat of the music. What was that aroma? Old books? No, not that musty, not leather. Sweeter, and yet not floral. He couldn't quite place the fragrance. Mystified, he held her, and thought over the benefits of stout old doors that featured brass locks and keys. Orry stood with Katya, watching the waltzing. Despite his best efforts as anchor, they were drifting nearer the dangerous currents and eddies. Dare swept past with Bethany firmly but uncrushed in his grasp. Orry suspected TD of originating from some distant planet where he had been trained in human culture as part of a plan to infiltrate and conquer Earth. But his coaches had miscalculated and gone too far, and actually had taught him to dance. Real steps. In time to the music. With turns, yet. If TD and Bethany hadn't swept by so quickly, Orry would have liked to confirm that Dare was actually raising his feet from the floor and setting them back down again without inflicting compound fractures on his partner. Katya Borgan was definitely succumbing to the mass insanity before them. Orry looked down at the gloss of her hair. It was sweeping her shoulders, swaying rhythmically in time to the music. Of course her ancestors probably invented this particular style of dance, he reflected grimly. He badly wanted a drink. Steeped in ethanol, he would care less, but be considerably more hazardous to her health. Damn. There was Maldonne with Mrs. Grandham. They looked like they had been rehearsing together for public performance over the last several decades minimum. Orry bent low. He studied Katya's perfect ear. For a maddening moment, he thought about nibbling, starting there, and finishing at approximately umbilical level. Then he muttered, "where you grew up, did they have dancing bears?" "Oh yes," she replied, dimpling her chin in a sugar plus lemon expression, "they are absolutely my favorite of animals." "I was afraid of that," he told her. He held his hand out to her and she settled her's inside it. Engulfed, never to be seen again. Her other hand got to his lower bicep without too much of a stretch on her part. He strategically chose a piece of floor nearest the wall, so he could limit surveillance of oncoming disaster to 180 degrees. He lowered his other hand. It dropped carefully until there was almost no bend left to his elbow. Ever so cautiously, he rested it approximately under her arm, gently palpating the scapular anatomy. He wondered if concentrating on the various origins and insertions of her rotator cuff musculature would add to or detract from his efforts at non-violent motion. She settled agreeably towards him. He allowed the music to direct him in a slight lateral lassitude. A little left. A little right. Now for the feet. Easy now. And one and two. Inch a shuffle. Inch a shuffle. There's her shoe. There's the other. He looked at her face. Bravery in action. Staunch lady. She actually looked please. No. Contented. Miraculous. But don't let it go to your head. Vigilance, first. Surveillance second. Danger. Oncoming couple at 60 degrees. They're past. Clean miss. I could go on like this, he thought to himself. Get used to it. Maybe in a year or two. Or maybe not. It occurred to Orry to wonder how Moxy was doing. Avoiding dancing, apparently successfully. Khaz had walked enough hallways away from the ballroom to find a mirror in a deserted room. Once again she tied the scarf around her forehead, settled it on her shoulders, then her waist, then the leg and the boot top. Moxy sat in the corner on a chair that was meant for visual effect rather than comfort. When she'd finished arranging the fabric, Khaz turned to him and asked "what do you think, am I presentable? And is it standing out right?" Staring fixedly at her chest, he asked "do you mean the scarf, or your..." She threw her handbag at him before he could finish. "Brat!" she exclaimed, laughing. He dodged the missile, and grinned at her, asking innocently "what did I say?" She leaned over him to retrieve the purse, and he landed a kiss on the angle of her neck. "Why aren't you taking this seriously?" she demanded, "after all, your name's printed on the wall along with mine, in big bold capital letters, out there right next to the Governor's receiving line. A pazillion people have seen the display and read your name as a Saraste Award participant. If we don't make the finals, they'll all know we failed." "But we didn't fail. It works," he said shrugging cheerfully. "Public opinion is everything," she argued. "The way I see it, you're smarter than them, and you're more talented, and better looking than they are. Why do you care what they think?" he asked her. She paused a moment, "to tell you the truth, I can't answer your question, because I have no idea why. Come on. Let's get this over with." Holding his hand in a vice-like grip, she headed back out into the ballroom. The full glare of the huge chandeliers struck the mountain imagery of the scarf and its intricate circuitry. The effect was so vivid that Khaz herself could see part of it, the owl in flight, around about hip level, she thought. First one-person stopped, and then two more, and then she had a half-dozen admiring and murmuring to each other. Extending their hands to destroy the illusion and pulling them away to make it reappear again, like children with a fascinating toy. Soon, people were craning their necks from behind the first group and asking for a chance to see, and the whole thing turned into a sort of exhibition plus receiving line with Khaz accepting people' s compliments and Moxy explaining the scientific principles. This went on for a while. Then Khaz felt that things had gotten a little out of hand when she realized that the people in front of her, viewing the scarf and questioning Moxy were the Governor and his wife. She shook hands with them and received their commendations. The attention was getting to be overpowering by now, and she started to feel a little dizzy from standing still so long and talking so much. She made a covert face at Moxy, and he shrugged back at her. She wondered how many guests there were, how many she had already shaken hands with, and what proportion of them were still to come. After a while, she got to a dazed level with a sort of glassy blank stare to her eyes, and lost track of time. Which was fine for someone who was merely being polite to a multitude of well wishers. But how was Moxy managing with the repetition of the same answers to the same questions, trying to explain difficult physical principles, some of which he hadn't quite sorted out himself, let alone explaining to nonscientific types in words of two syllables or less, over and over again? What she could hear of his voice sounded rather rough. She glanced in his direction again. He seemed a bit pale and beleaguered, and she remembered vaguely that he had required some medical attention earlier the same evening. She hoped he wouldn't pass out. She was trying to think of a graceful, or at least a practical exit plan, and the only one that occurred to her dulled cerebral functions was to frankly tell everyone that she needed to run to the potty. She had just fuzzilly rejected the plan to herself, not out of embarrassment, but because she could not think of a good excuse for taking Moxy with her to the ladies' room. What was the polite thing to say to a guy? She considered woozily that "Moxy, you'd better join me, your nose needs powdering," didn't hack it. She was just toying with "Moxy, let's go and freshen up," when her blurring vision focused on Ted Dare and Phil Maldonne, only one row behind the front line. They managed to work their way politely to the dress circle after some subtle angling and elbowing. TD leaned toward Khaz and said in a low voice with just a hint of stifled amusement in it, "are you enjoing yourselves, or would you care to be rescued?" "No. And yes please," she muttered in lowered tones, trying to keep a frantic pleading expression off of her face. The two veterans of crowd control needed neither badges nor bullhorns to assert their authority. Dare got Khaz's arm and Maldonne had a hand firmly applied to Moxy's shoulder. The four then exited with the crowd simply melting before them like sugar in a flood. In a quieter quarter Dare said to Maldonne, "I'll get the scarf thing under lock and key while you make your way to the provisions." Khaz removed the scarf carefully, rolled it loosely, and gratefully handed it to TD. She tidied her hair in front of one of the ubiquitous hall mirrors, and said "food. Yes. Good." Monosyllables were still all she could manage. "I'll meet you all there," Dare told them and strode off with his usual determination. Maldonne got them safely to the room where refreshments were being served. Orry was there, ferrying hors d'oeuvres from the tables to Katya Borgan, Bethany, and Mrs. Grandham. He looked rather proprietary of the crowd of lovely ladies entrusted to his care. He also looked particularly pleased to be doing something, anything with this feet that did not involve music. He greeted the three newcomers cheerfully. Mrs. Grandham was telling Katya Borgan "I don't know why Dr. Orry told you he can't dance. I was watching you two together. I think he dances beautifully." "Yes, indeed," Katya agreed, smiling warmly. She extended one of her wine-colored pumps out for the other ladies' inspection, " do you see? Not one single smudge there is on this shoe." "That's because the surgeon general's recommendations prevent me from lifting my feet more than a fraction of a millimeter while standing, leaning, or otherwise posturing within three miles' circumference around an orchestra when it is playing," Orry beamed down at his bevy of beauties. He had successfully made his way again to the table through the jostling crowd, and returned with a plate loaded with goodies which he handed gallantly to Khaz. He was reveling in the situation which allowed him to carry full plates a good foot and a half above other people's heads with no danger of spillage. Khaz received his offering with sincere gratitude, and shared the food with Moxy. "I hear your impromptu receiving line gave the Governor's such intense competition that he gave up and went out for a beer," Orry told Khaz. "Imagine my astonishment," she agreed, "who would have thought it?" "Created quite a sensation, huh?" Orry said to Moxy. The kid nodded. "Have you taken a vow of silence?" the doctor asked him. "I think it's laryngitis," Moxy croaked in a hoarse whisper. "Gee, no, do you really think so?" Orry laughed, shaking his head at him. "Let's see," the doctor continued, "how about hot tea with sugar and lemon?" "And wodka," Katya Borgan chimed in. "Vodka?" Orry tilted his head at her quizzically. "Wodka," she shook her head vigorously. "Well, doctor, thank you for the consultation," Orry smiled, "I'll stand in line for the vodka, and you get the tea. If you were to ask for vodka-neat, the bartender might stare at you." "Not with her accent, he wouldn't," Bethany teased. Orry was pleased that the girls had hit it off so well that Bethany felt comfortable joking with Katya. "And thank you for your good advice, doctor. I will get the tea. And you will get the wodka-neat. And the bartender will not dare to stare at you," Katya responded archly. The two of them returned from opposite directions after a prolonged delay. "It is perhaps not so very hot," Katya Borgan complained of the tea. "Good, because it's going in here," Orry said, holding out a glass tumbler containing two fingers of clear fluid at the bottom. He poured the tea into the tumbler and handed it to Moxy, "there you go. Just what the doctors ordered." The kid took several sips. "Better?" Katya asked him. "Yes, thanks," Moxy whispered thickly. Then, in response to their collective skeptical expressions, he croaked "well, anyway, it feels better." "Maybe we should have written for refills on that prescription, Dr. Borgan," Orry suggested. "Perhaps, yes, Dr. Orry," she agreed. "Any refills and Moxy will be making a close study of local carpeting," Khaz objected, "come on," she pulled the kid' s hand, "if we dance together, you can lean against me without generating undue commentary amongst the observers." "Don't lift your feet," Orry called choreographic advice after the kid' s retreating form. Dare returned to the party at the refreshment table. "Security put the scarf in a safe with a posted guard," he said to Maldonne, "and I didn't have to do a hard sell to convince them it was valuable." "Word travels fast," the older man replied. "Well, word has it that the Governor has heard from Helsinki, and will be making his announcement in about five minutes," Dare told them. "Word has it, that the Governor was smiling. Which suggests that the news is good again this year." The ladies bubbled with excitement. "Oh, do you think they've made the finals?" Bethany asked TD. "I wouldn't be surprised," Dare answered calmly. Bethany crossed her fingers. Katya Borgan looked puzzled. "It means for good luck," Mrs. Grandham explained. Then Benjamin Orry said "in my family, they always say ' and a kiss for good luck,' " and with that he picked Katya Borgan straight up off the floor, kissed her roundly, and set her back down. "Your family says that?" she asked, blushing. "Mine, too," Maldonne agreed, kissing Mrs. Grandham as she turned to look at him. "My goodness, it must be quite a local tradition," Mrs. Grandham twinkled a little laugh. Ted Dare said in somber tones "well, I'm a native son," and before Bethany could blink, he swept her over backwards in a tango maneuver, and kissed her fervently. "Teddy!" she exclaimed, utterly astonished. With no change in the sobriety of his expression, and not so much as a glance at the people in the room watching them in amusement, he said "shall we proceed to the ballroom for the announcement?" He offered his fiancee his arm politely and headed in that direction. The orchestra had just finished the last measures of the piece they had been playing. The crowd was trickling in from the various hallways, sitting rooms, and antechambers. The word was definitely out, and there was an excited murmur of anticipation. The comparative quiet allowed the storm noises to predominate. A tremendous clap of thunder that trailed off into sounds of a phantom avalanche of box car sized boulders down the mountain side made the huge room shake and the crystal drops of the mammoth chandelier tremble in fearsome array. Then, in the heightened tension of emotions crowding up to the monumental ceilings, the lights winked out. There were one or two shrieks across the cavernous space. Just as the unease was reaching critical mass, the power surged, and the lights flashed back on. Several bulbs exploded with percussive detonations, generating another small series of anxious cries from the crowd. Then, hushed conversation resumed gradually across the ballroom, accompanied by nervous laughter. Dare turned to Maldonne, "they should announce plans for leaving the room in case of a continued power outage. Instructions on staying calm, finding the nearest exit. Have the orchestra play something soothing. Anything would be better than nothing. What are they thinking of?" He shook his head critically. Maldonne agreed, "wish we were all together. Maybe we should try to collect Khaz and the kid. Go back out into the hallway. If we weren't two heartbeats away from a stampede just now, I don't know crowds from crumpets." "At least let's keep the rest of the group together," Dare instructed. Since the moment the lights had returned, Orry had been scanning the crowd for the lost pair, "I've got my eye on Khaz, way the heck over on the other side. Moxy is nowhere near her." "By herself? Great," Dare exclaimed with disapproval, then "point out what direction she's holding." Orry complied. He had the feeling of crow's nest personnel looking for breakers. "Right," Dare told him, "we'll get the ladies back out the way we came and work our way around to the other side via the corridors. You plow straight through, grab Khaz and hit the nearest exit. We'll rendezvous there. Everyone keep their eyes wide open for the kid." Maldonne had a firm hold on Mrs. Grandham, and Dare took custody of Katya Borgan and Bethany. Getting out an exit was easier than moving inward. A few other wise souls were taking similar precautions, but mostly the crowd held strong in the ballroom, awaiting the Governor's announcement. Khaz eyed the crowd nervously. After dancing with her awhile, Moxy had excused himself to go find the men's room. If she left her current position, she might miss the Governor's announcement. And Moxy might have trouble finding her again. She tried to reason herself out of her scare attack. Each of the individuals around her seemed intelligent, calm, civilized, in control. But fading into the crowd beyond was that summary of animal force where intellect faded and instinct was everything. She had the feeling of staring at storm swells on a rough ocean. This wave will be huge when it breaks, overwhelming everything in its path, pounding destruction into splinters and pulverized pulp. She found herself backing inch by inch away from the terrifying force in front of her. She took a step back and collided with an immovable object. "Sorry," she said, turning to find a clearer path. Then recognition struck her. She was face to face with Terrents, her sometime employer. Fat-face Terrents, staring at her lugubriously. Blocking her path intentionally. "Good evening," she said to him formally, "excuse me. I need to go find my colleague." "Oh, is that what you call him?" he leered, unsubtly, "I thought you were studying the 17 to 24 year old set awfully carefully for just professional interest. Really getting in depth, aren't you? Well, cradle robbing's not a crime, is it? If you've got the thighs and he's got the sighs, dive right in, old girl." Khaz wanted to slap him in the jowls. Instead, she stepped back and stared at him starting at his patent leather shoes and lingering especially long over his crotch which was massively overshadowed by his belly. His formal suit was in a suddenly popular trendy shade of indeterminate dark with a cast of forest green. He was wearing an elaborate waistcoat with a huge imitation-antique gold watch, chain and fob. He had on enough green fabric to make an army tent, she figured. Suddenly, without warning, she started to giggle, and that evolved to overt laughter. She clapped both hands over her mouth, trying to stifle it, trying to drag back her previous feeling of righteous indignation. Terrents' oily features went brilliant orange with rage. Sunrise over forest terrain, she thought, laughing out loud at the notion of Terrents' being declared a major land mass, entitled to government regulation. "I sincerely beg your pardon," she chuckled. "I just couldn't help reflecting," she choked on a guffaw, "that for the first time I might actually approve of clear-cut deforestation timbering. That huge expanse of forest green probably did the trick," and she broke down laughing. "You won't be laughing for long," he shouted at her. "Just wait until you see this," he pulled a long envelope out of his extensive jacket folds. She refused to take it, tried to step aside and get past him. He grabbed her arm and waved the envelope in her face, "take it," he told her, "you'll take it if you know what's good for you." From behind and above, "is this fellow annoying you?" Benjamin Orry's deep voice dropped down to her level like a comforting warm blanket over her shoulders. "A little," she smiled up at him. Orry's hand came down around Terrents' radius and ulna, squeezing just a little pressure. Gasping at the powerful grip on his forearm, Terrents let go of Khaz. "You'll be needing your lawyers again. If you can afford them, which I doubt," he dropped the envelope at her feet, and blundered away, rudely elbowing people left and right. Orry picked up the paperwork, " do you want this?" he asked her. "I suppose I'd better have a look at it," Khaz sighed, accepting it. As she tore the envelope she said, "by the way. Thank you. You can rescue me any time." Orry flushed hot and looked away. "Why that nasty prevaricacious ass," she exclaimed. "He claims I was working for him on the Saraste Award project. Claims the scarf, the software, the rights to the polymerization process, everything is his intellectual property. He waited until he was sure it was a success before pouncing on it. What a complete jerk. I wonder how such a no-account, talentless, tasteless, vulgar slug ever got into the fashion industry anyway." Khaz shuddered over the nasty vision of Terrents in evening coat. "Probably because his mommy wouldn't let him try-on her brasier when he was little," a feminine voice next to her joked. Khaz looked up and realized her nearest neighbor was the fashion editor for the largest newspaper in the state. The reporter wasn't taking notes. But then, maybe she was wired for sound. Great, perfect. The evening was not going as Khaz had hoped at all. "Where is Moxy?" Orry asked. "He went off to find the facilities ages ago. I haven't seen him since," she replied, her expression somewhere between annoyance at abandonment and concern over Moxy's disappearance. "Dare and Maldonne were worrying about the crowd and the power outage. I was going to offer to escort you to the nearest exit, and rendezvous with the rest of them. We can hover close enough to hear the Governor's announcement whenever he actually gets around to it. What do you say?" Khaz was folding the documents and cramming them back into the envelope. "Fine with me," she said, "the way things are going, I'm not sure I want to even wait for the results." "Now, I wouldn't go that far," Orry told her, "we all figure you're a contender. Definitely a contender." He offered her his elbow, or at least whatever part of his arm she could best reach. As they worked their way toward the door, Khaz sensed that the newspaper reporter was shadowing her. Whether this should be attributed to a quest for more dirty laundry, or that the scarf was indeed contending for distinction, she couldn't figure. She hoped the latter. They joined up with Dare and the rest of the group just outside the door. They were still lacking the kid, but definitely had acquired the reporter, who was determinedly attaching herself to them. "No sign of Moxy?" Dare asked. "He's been gone awhile," Orry shrugged, as he repeated Khaz's information. Dare looked somber at this, fixing his eyes on Orry with an unspoken question. Orry shook his head silently in reply. The reporter followed their glances with considerable interest. They were interrupted by electronic feedback which pierced the air suddenly. The Governor's mellow voice followed it, "folks, sorry about the delay. The PA system went out with the power surge and has only just now been fixed. We would like just to mention that emergency lighting is available, and will come on if the power goes out for more than a few moments. So stay put, and hold to your spot if that happens. Now to the more exciting news. I have in my hands the results of the Saraste competition to date. As you all know, these awards go every year to the finest and rarest works. Those that combine developments in science with unusual beauty in design. Now I would like to remind the assemblage that our state has boasted a finalist every year for the last two decades, since the competition's inception. And I would just like to add that this fact is a tribute to our citizens' pioneering spirit, the quality of education available at every level, and the brilliant people that our fine state attracts from other places worldwide, to call our home theirs. And that it is a tribute to the educational and cultural programs you as taxpayers have supported, and I as your elected representative have backed with every strength of government available to me. Now that I've delivered that message of importance..." he waited for the polite laughter to recede, "I am pleased to announce that this year, once again, our great state is represented in the Saraste Award finals. The submitted entry was cited for its extraordinary combination of graceful artistry, novel polymer chemistry, and cutting edge computer technology. I am honored to announce, representing us internationally in the Saraste Award finals is the team of Khaziamiere and Youngblood." The crowd broke into applause. Bethany Berke hugged Khaz, and breaking into tears, congratulated her friend, "I knew you'd do it! I just knew it." Orry, Dare and Maldonne each shook hands with Khaz warmly. And then Katya and Mrs. Grandham hugged her. And then the tenacious newspaper reporter started asking her questions. Had Khaz already purchased plane tickets for Helsinki? How confident had she been about making the finals? Did she think her odds were good to go all the way for the first time in their state's history, and win the Saraste Award? Khaz turned to the others abruptly, "but where is Moxy?" she asked. "I can't believe he missed hearing the announcement." Meanwhile, people coming through the doorway recognized her, and were stopping to congratulate her. The crowd surrounding them became oppressively dense. Dare turned to Maldonne and said "security." The old cop nodded. Leading the way, TD worked through the forming crowd, got the group down the corridor and into the large, dark paneled office that was serving as headquarters for the security team. Somehow the reporter had managed to stay with them the whole way. Dare spoke to the head of security "we're leaving soon, but missing a member of the party. Moxy Youngblood." The chief of security asked "Youngblood? The one in the Governor's announcement just now?" "That's right," Dare agreed, "none of us have seen him for quite a while now," he added with emphasis. "Probably just swamped with people shaking his hand," the security chief suggested. Dare stated bluntly "I'm going back out to look for him. The rest of you stay here." Orry shook his head emphatically, "not me. I'm coming with you." The security chief added "if you'll describe him, I'll send some of the men out, too. Bring him back here if we come across him first." Dare replied briskly "male, late teens. 5 foot 5 inches, 125 pounds. Black hair, gray eyes. Fair complexion. Dinner jacket, no tie. Let's go," Dare told Orry. The security chief admonished them "stick to the lighted corridors. And any doors you find closed, leave them alone." "Why?" Orry demanded bluntly. "Certain portions of the building haven't been repaired in decades. They're either currently under construction or waiting for a more lavish budget to be voted on," the chief rolled his eyes, grimaced and shrugged. "Anyway," he continued, "sometimes the construction crews forget to lock up after they're through. Once you break through a floor board, you could drop several stories before you came to rest. Especially if you're, shall we say, large," the security chief nodded at Dare and Orry. The doctor responded "well, suppose we don't find Youngblood in any of the lighted areas?" "If it becomes necessary to search the rest of the building, my men will attend to it," the security chief insisted. Dare nodded emphatically, "come on, let's go." As they headed toward the ballroom, the doctor grumbled "whatever you do, don't open the closed door, or traverse the darkened corridor... Sounds like the beginning of a Victorian ghost story." The doctor intoned "... all went well until, one day, curiosity got the better of Lady Mildred, and she opened the door to the forbidden corridor..." "You read a lot of Victorian ghost stories, do you?" Dare smiled at his friend, who looked monumentally dignified and doctoral in the unaccustomed formal evening attire. "It's sort of a hobby," Orry muttered. He easily could have added "ever since I first saw Moxy's dead mother on a storm-lit mountainside," but he kept that explanation to himself. They started in the ballroom and refreshment areas, searching according to Dare's methodical outline. Then they swept the surrounding corridors. "Let's split up for the outer perimeter," Dare suggested, "go in opposite directions and meet again on the far side." The doctor told himself that, in the crowded rooms, Moxy easily could have been just not where they were looking when they were looking for him. Hide and seek. Annoying but not alarming. Now, as he walked the deserted hallways farther from the festivities,Orry's pace slowed. There seemed an oppressive closeness about the air, as if it were laden with dust as well as shadows. In the dimness, the grandeur of the place faded to glory past, an infirm old age, progressing to crumbling antiquity. The faces of portraits in oils which predominated on these walls, replacing the post of the gilt framed mirrors, watched the doctor with sentinel eyes. They had been notables, famous in their heyday, barons of cattle, trains, gold and silver mines. Oratorical genius brokered to an extreme of inflated egocentricity. Now gone, dead, forgotten. In the doctor's imagination, the elderly statesmen spoke "it's easy to be a mirror," the wall images agreed, "whatever the current fashion in clothes, it struts within the mirror, ever changing. But they are so fickle, those mirrors, and there's no substance to them. All their elegance is borrowed, a mere reflection of taste, no self possession. For substance, for faithfullness, give us the oil painting. We are not blown about by the whims of fashionable society. We do not change our stripes, simply because plaid is suddenly again all the rage. No sir. In the oil painting is sturdy steadiness, and devotion to the assigned image. Aye, give us true portraiture or empty walls, sir. Empty walls, we say, and we are unanimous in our opinion." Orry paused in front of a large portrait, then stopped and stared. The subject was a comely woman of a past century, dressed in hoop skirts. She was red-haired, shapely, laughing mischievously. "Kin of yours?" Orry started violently, turning to confront the speaker. The dim hallway was empty. He had seen the reflection of a face in the glass pane covering the portrait. The reflection of a burly middle-aged man, full bearded, clad in denim overalls. Maybe it was a reflection of a painting on the opposite wall, transformed by Orry's imagination. Imagination of what? he wondered. Then he recalled Maldonne's story about the mine cave-in, and the dead miners haunting the mansion, demanding their rights to proper burial. Pondering this, he proceeded farther along the way. "She was the governor's missus, you know..." Orry acknowledged to himself that the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. Somewhat. Now that he thought about it, the young woman in the painting did remind him of some of the ladies in the Orry clan. Nieces. Cousins. Maybe she was a distant relative of some sort. He still was not ready to attribute the sentences he thought he'd heard to anything supernatural. In a huge building with many occupants, he was certain there was a human source of voices nearby. Nearly certain. On the other hand, if this were the ghost of a dead miner, could the spirit animals haunting the establishment be far behind? At the end of the corridor was a door. Closed. Of course. Well, there was no way to fall through the floor boards, simply by opening the door and looking inside. And the doctor continued his reasoning, Moxy didn't know he wasn't supposed to open closed doors, did he? The doctor twisted the ornate crystal knob. The door opened easily, silently. There was no sinister resistance and no eerie creak. And the opened door did not reveal a darkened corridor. It was a very small chamber containing a hat tree, an umbrella stand, a full length looking glass, and a low wooden chest. The chest was too small to contain a body, even a dismembered one, the doctor reflected. The small room glowed vaguely yellow, but Orry could not determine the light source. At the back of the chamber was a narrow set of stairs. Maybe the light came from overhead in the stairwell. The doctor contemplated the floor boards. They looked solid. A soft chuckling sound drifted down the stairs. The hair on Orry's arms stood up, deciding to join those on his neck for calisthentics. Orry shuddered. He placed one foot inside the doorway and planted it firmly on the floor. Then he walked across. As if from the other side of the wall, the sentence came "if it held for me, it'll hold for you. I'm heavier than you." Orry walked up two stairs. And then he heard "was heavier than you. Sorry. Past tense. Way past," and the chuckling resumed. Orry continued his upward course. Three steps, a tiny triangular landing, three steps more and another door. The door knob was rusty metal. Orry turned it without result. "Not that door, it's got no floor. First step's the last step and never again no more," the sentence echoed. Orry walked up the next three steps. At this landing was another door. He turned the handle, and pulled. The door came open and then completely off its hinges, striking the landing hard enough to make the boards groan. The doctor looked through the doorway into dusty darkness. Whether there were any walls, floor, ceiling, or simply a large empty space, he could not determine. "Moxy?" he called out. There was a decidedly cold draft. And on this floated a disembodied growl. It sounded like the noise a cat makes when it has captured and sunk its claws into the body of its prey. A low, deep throated rumble rising triumphantly to a full hissing howl. Not a house cat, but a larger animal. Cougar? As Orry's eyes adjusted to the inky space, he caught a glimpse of glowing green. A pair of fiery orbits, glaring out at him. Hastily, he replaced the door in its frame, and slammed it hard. Better not to press his luck. It occurred to him that he was lacking only the Indian princess to complete the representation of ghoulish souls. Now the narrow flight of stairs ascended straight upward into increasing darkness to the top. The steps ended at a doorway. Of course, the door was closed. His hand groped until it found a door knob. Then Orry hesitated. If he opened this door, would he be trampled by a herd of stampeding ghost bison? "Some places in the world, if someone is a coward, they go kill the bravest person they can find, cut their heart out, and devour it. I think the civilized equivalent is to find the most brilliant and talented individual you can, overwhelm them, subjugate them, and become their master," the taunting voice of Daville Shayden sounded in the doctor's ears. Hurriedly, Orry turned the handle and flung the door open. He found himself looking into another main hallway full of portraits. In the distance were two figures. Daville Shayden, his coal eyes glittering even in the dimness. Standing over the kid. Moxy Youngblood, motionless, as if mesmerized, staring up at Shayden. Shayden looked like he might be debating eating the kid raw versus waiting to broil him. A long tongue flicked out around his mouth, wetting his dark red lips. "You're mine already, although you haven't admitted it to yourself, yet," Shayden stated. Moxy moved backwards. Shayden's hand darted out, clenched the kid's arm and hung on. The next thing that Orry felt was his own hands closing around Shayden's throat.

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