CHARLIE NARANSHEK SLIPPED his service piece into the sleeve pocket of his dress tunic. He always carried it there, though his employers at the Grotto had supplied him with a large and very ornate weapon, with instructions to wear it prominently. It was a matter of feelings. Charlie felt better on his shift as bouncer when he knew that his daytime gun was at hand. He got the heebie-jeebies whenever he thought about having to draw and aim the pretty piece he wore on his belt.
Feelings, Charlie thought, slamming the locker door, were important. Clues to the inner man. It was smart to pay attention to one's feelings, to act with them.
He raised his hand as he passed the desk. "Night, Pat."
"Hey, Charlie?" She waved him over, spinning the screen on its lazy Susan so he could see the bright amber letters. "Take a look at this, willya? Something you might run into down on the second job."
He frowned at the letters: Be On The Lookout....
"Four turtles and two humans? Are they crazy?"
Pat shrugged. "Who knows? Don't you think the turtles would eat the Grotto up? That fancy no-grav dance floor?" She wiggled her shoulders in a uniformed parody of a dance that may have been in fashion on some steamy jungle world where spears and canoes were still considered pretty radical stuff.
Charlie grunted. "Sure. But it's not no-grav; it's low-grav." He shook his head at the screen. "'Observe, but do not contact. Report whereabouts to Headquarters, Mixla City ... continue observation ... Considered armed and dangerous'?"
He looked at Pat, who grimaced and touched her keypad. Physical descriptions of the two human members of the party scrolled into place.
"'Male, brown hair, green eyes, slender build, approximately five-five, age eighteen to twenty-five. Female, red hair, gray eyes, slender build, approximately five-two, age eighteen to twenty-five.'" He straightened, pushing the screen back where it belonged. "This is armed and dangerous? Ain't neither one of 'em big enough to pick up a gun, much less use it. The turtles now—one of them could hurt you, if he stepped on you."
Pat laughed and flipped her hand at him. "Get out of here, you damn moonlighter. I don't know what I expected from somebody who can't live on a cop's salary."
He grinned, moving toward the door. "See you later, Pat. Try not to let one of them kids take over the station while I'm gone, okay?"
"Yah—just don't go dancin' with no turtles, old man."
The door slid closed on her laughter and Charlie sprinted for the nearest taxi stand. He'd have to step on it now, or he'd be late.
HANDLER HAD OUTDONE himself. Not only was the Clutch party seated within an exclusive alcove with excellent sight of the musicians and the famous dance floor, as well as two of the six bars, but he had further arranged—since the Clutch, after all, were visiting human space—that the four nonhumans should eat their meal using Terran utensils.
One by one Edger extracted his set from the sheathing napkin, turning each fork, knife, and spoon this way and that, subjecting it to saucer-eyed scrutiny.
"What think you, brothers?" he asked the table at large, extending a spoon. "Is this also a knife? It has an edge, of sorts...."
Handler pulled one of his spoons free and tried the balance in one large hand. "It is true that it could be a knife, elder brother, and it is not beyond our skill to encourage such a shape. But this other—" He proffered a dessert fork. "Three points? Six edges, I fear me."
"A trifle!" Edger asserted. "Think if we but bring the problem to—" Here sense was lost in a sonorous rumbling that Miri realized must be Clutch-talk.
She leaned to her partner. "Are they serious, or what?"
"Hm?" He started slightly and turned to her, his full sleeve brushing her bare arm. "Of course they're serious. Middle River Clan produces the finest knives in Edger's society. Which is the same as saying that they produce the finest knives anywhere yet discovered."
"What does that mean—the finest? Does it mean pretty or useful or indestructible?"
He grinned and refilled their glasses. "Yes. Middle River knives are crystal, delicately crafted, superbly handled, exquisitely sheathed—things of beauty, without doubt. Also useful, since a knife is, after all, a tool. Edger and his Clan encourage as many blades as there are uses for blades, from screwdrivers to grace knives." He sipped wine. "Indestructible? Edger is very careful to say that a Middle River blade will shatter, under conditions that he likes to call 'traumatic.' These being the total destruction of the building or vehicle the knife resides within, while the knife is so resident...."
She laughed. "But spoons?"
He removed one of the many folded in his napkin. Flippling the lace away from his hand in absent-minded grace, he held the utensil out for her inspection and ran a finger around the edge. "There is symmetry, you see. And purpose. Utility. A certain pleasing quality, indeed, to the form." He shrugged and lay the spoon aside. "Who can tell? Perhaps soon—within, let us say, the late middle life of your grandchildren—Middle River spoons may be the very rage among the wealthy and influential."
"Indeed," Edger boomed, "such was my thought, young brother! If these be things that are used daily, why then should they be wrought of soft metal, that so quickly wears out? Why not, indeed, of crystal from our Clan's encouragement, so that they may be used for hundreds and hundreds of your Standard Years?"
Miri laughed again, raising her glass. "No reason at all! Humans are just shortsighted, I guess."
"We do not blame you for it," Handler said quickly, "for it is true that you cannot help the shortness of your lives. But it does seem wasteful and somewhat chauvinistic to condemn your works to obsolescence only because you, yourselves—" He floundered, the end of his sentence in sight and no graceful exit apparent, but Edger rescued him noisily.
"Not so, brother, for ephemera is an art form. Indeed, it may be art at its highest form—I have yet to conceive an opinion and have heard no others. Have we not all seen the works of this, our younger brother, employing the mediums of sound, of movement pattern, and reflected light? Done, gone, changing as it goes. Art, brothers. And who is to say that..." Perceiving that Edger was in the throes of his passion yet again, his Clan members composed themselves to listen.
The remaining two members of the party exchanged glances, grins, and a sip of wine.
CHARLIE CAME THROUGH the East door of the Grotto exactly on time and hardly out of breath, waving at his day-shift counterpart.
"Hey, George! What's the news, man? All quiet in underground Econsey?"
"Pretty quiet," allowed the other, a thin, dark man who'd been thrown off the force for hitting a kid and killing him. "There's a party over in the South quarter might bear some extra attention. Group of genuine Clutch-type turtles and a couple humans."
"Say what?" Charlie stared, then quickly forced himself to blink.
"Turtles," George repeated patiently. "Four of 'em. Two humans: male and female. Young. No problems—just a little noisy. But that's turtles for you—can't hold a conversation without cracking the walls next door. I just like to keep an eye on 'em. Not that we get that many 'phobes in here."
Charlie nodded. "Yeah, but you never know. I'll check in on 'em every so often. What about the kids?"
"Pretty couple. He's dark. She's a redhead. Not orange," he elaborated surprisingly. "Kind of a reddish brown."
"Auburn."
"Yeah, auburn. Little thing. Seem to be having a good time—all six of 'em. Million laughs." He shrugged and shuffled a step toward the bar.
"Well, good," Charlie said, taking his hint. "I hope they enjoy their stay in beautiful Econsey." He raised a hand. "See you 'round, buddy."
"Take it easy." George was already waving at Macy behind the bar to set up his first drink.
CHARLIE'S BEAT WAS the East and South quarters, with one eye tipped to the low-grav dance floor at the center of things. Janees Dalton patrolled West and North, one of her eyes also on the floor, and two floaters circulated, their eyes on everything.
East was quiet. Charlie intercepted a bill dispute before it got noisy and passed it to the nearest floor manager; he escorted an early drunk to the nearest exit and put her in a cab; he nodded hello to a couple of regulars and moved across to South.
Good mob tonight, he thought, flicking a glance to the dance floor and another to twin bars marking the gateway from East to South. He spotted one of the floaters, Mark Swenger, and waved him over.
"How's it goin'?"
"Not too bad." Mark grinned. A nice kid, he worked the Grotto nights and went to school days, aiming to be a lawyer. Charlie hoped that wouldn't happen—law was a bad way to lose a friend.
"What about the turtle party?" he asked. "Still running?"
"Oh, yeah. It looks like they'll be there for the next year." Mark shook his head. "Man, you would not believe the beer and wine that table's going through! They might have to stay a year."
Charlie tipped his head. "Disorderly?"
"Naw, just having a good time. A little loud, but I think turtles just are, since they're so big and everything. It's wild, though, to walk past and hear the big one booming out in Terran to the girl, and the next littlest one booming just a little less loud to the boy in Trade, and the other two going to town in something I don't think anybody can speak!" He laughed.
"Real cosmopolitan, huh?" Charlie was grinning, too.
"Real circus," Mark corrected. "But not obnoxious. Kind of heartwarming, actually. They don't seem to have a care to care about." He scanned the crowd and lifted a hand. "I'd better be drifting like the tides, man."
Charlie nodded, moving off in the other direction. "See you later, kid."
South was starting to fill up, though there weren't many people on the dance floor. Early yet for dancing, Charlie thought; the band was barely warm. He saw an opening in the mob around the hors d'oeuvre table and slipped through, working his way back to the far wall.
And there they were. Four turtles, looming and booming. Two humans: She, pale-skinned and tiny, the blue of her dress feeding the flame of her hair; he, dark and in no way large, casual in the fine white shirt, as if these were the clothes he always wore. Charlie saw him lean close to speak into her ear. She laughed and raised her glass to drink.
Armed and dangerous? Charlie thought. Fat chance. He flicked his glance to the floor, then checked out the bars, the snack table, and the main entrance to the Quarter as he drifted back to the wall. It struck him that the boy sat where he could take advantage of that same view and he wondered if it were by design. He snorted and shook his head. Old man, you been a cop too long.
An acquaintance hailed him from a center table and he stopped to chat a minute; he looked up in time to see the boy leaving the turtles' alcove. Charlie nodded to his friend, promised to call soon, and moved away, frowning at the redhaired girl, and at the empty chair beside her.
He did one more quick scan of the area—dance floor, bars, exit, hors d'oeuvre table—and nodded, satisfied. Then he headed for the turtles' alcove. It was time for his break.
MIRI LEANED BACK in her chair, occasionally sipping from the glass in her hand as she let the low, soothing rumble of the Clutch's native tongue roll over her. The evening had taken on a dreamlike quality which was not, she thought, entirely due to the wine.
There was no reason for it not to seem that way—all the well-known fairy-tale elements were there. Herself in a lovely dress, a necklace around her throat, and a ring upon her finger, each worth more than she could hope to earn in a year of superlative bonuses—gifts from a companion who was himself beautiful, charming, and entertaining.
And bats.
She banished the thought with a sip of wine and heard, beneath the thunder of the Clutch's conversation, the sound of approaching footsteps. Alarm jangled faintly—her partner walked without sound, and these steps did not belong to their waiter. She set the glass aside and turned.
A tall, wiry man, dark brown and cheerful, grinned and bowed, hand over heart. "My name's Charlie Naranshek," he said, straightening. "I saw you sitting here and I wondered if you'd like to dance?"
She eyed him, noting the ornate gun on the fancy belt, and the glint of silver thread in his dress tunic, then looked back at his face. He was still grinning, dark eyes sparkling. She grinned back.
"Sure," she said. "Why not?"
He helped her up and gave her his arm to the dance floor. "Be careful now," he cautioned. "This thing can be a little tricky till you get the hang of it—'bout six-tenths normal gravity."
She slanted her eyes at him, grinning. "I think I'll be okay."
Charlie hung onto her as they crossed fields, alert for any sign of unbalance—and made a derisive comment to himself when she made the adjustment to the reduced weight without the slightest falter.
"Been in space some?" he asked as they took over a few square inches and began to sway with the music.
She laughed, spinning. "Naw. Just on an awful lot of dance floors."
"Really?" he asked when they next came together. "But not on Lufkit. This here's the one, the only, the exclusive low-grav dance floor on the whole ball of mud."
She waved her hand at the table where the four turtles still boomed. "Crew like that, you figure we're gonna be doing some space."
Charlie grinned, refusing to be slapped down, and took her arm for the next move of the dance. "They could just be friends from out-of-town, couldn't they? And you and your—husband?—just showing them a good time?"
"Brother." She tipped her head. "Did you wait for him to leave?"
"Well, sure I did," he said. "Not that I don't think you're pretty enough to fight a duel over, understand—"
She laughed and spun away from him, obedient to the laws of the dance.
VAL CON RE-ENTERED by the South door and passed the two bars and the hors d'oeuvre table, not hurrying, but not dallying. The alcove was hidden by an eddy of people. As he broke through the crowd he heard the notes of Edger's voice, and then the table was suddenly in sight.
He froze, stomach clenching, then took an automatic breath and surveyed the room calmly, ice-cold sober. He caught a glimmer of blue in the pattern of the dance, saw a small pale hand join with a larger brown one, and moved deliberately over to the edge of the floor to wait.
THE DANCE BROUGHT them together again.
"You never did tell me your name," Charlie said.
"Roberta." She accepted his hand for a full spin and bowed as she returned. "My brother's Danny. If you want the names of the rest of the bunch, we'd better go someplace where we can sit down, 'cause it'll take awhile."
"That's okay." He frowned, noticing her start. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She threw a grin at him. "Nearly lost my footing."
"What! And you an old spacehand!"
She grinned again and whirled away for the last figure, again catching sight of her partner where he stood at the edge of the floor, watching the dance with a sort of detached, polite interest.
She completed her swing, dipped, and came up, swearing at herself for having yielded to the wine and the music and the dreaming. Her hand met Charlie's for the final time and the music stopped.
She smiled and began to move off the floor. "Thanks. It was fun."
"Hey! What about another one?" He was at her shoulder, reaching for her arm.
She eluded the touch without seeming to do it consciously, and set her steps straight for the still figure at the edge of the dance floor. "Sorry, Charlie, but my brother's waiting for me." She flung him another grin, hoping he would miss the tightness underneath it—hoping he would go away.
He stayed at her shoulder. "Well, there's no reason for your brother to want your head, is there? Besides, I think I owe him an apology for stealing his sister when he wasn't looking."
Hell, Miri thought. And there was the end of the dance floor and the man with the cold, closed face—
Teeth gritted, she faked a stumble, locking her hands around his wrists. He did not sway when her weight pushed into him; she held tighter, creasing the fine lace cuffs, and forced a breathless little laugh.
"Here's my brother now, so we can both apologize," she said to Charlie, giving the wrists she gripped a small shake before releasing them.
"Danny, this is Charlie Naranshek," she said, squeezing brightness into her voice around the lump of dread in her throat. "He asked me to dance while you were gone and I said yes. I'm sorry. I should've known you'd worry." She tipped her head, slanting gray eyes at his cold green ones.
Charlie added his voice to this, frowning slightly at the boy before him. Pretty, and that was a fact. But there was more warmth to be had from the eardrop or the faceted ring-jewel than from the eyes that rested on his. He moved his shoulders, grinning.
"I'm really sorry, Mr.—? But I saw your sister sitting there looking so pretty and so lonesome and all. I thought we could maybe have some fun. Do a little dancing. Talk. You know." He smiled again. "I understand how you could he a little upset. Man can't be too careful of his sister these days, and I know that to be a fact. But there really isn't any harm in me and I never meant to get her in trouble with you."
One eyebrow had slipped slightly out of alignment and the eyes themselves seemed somewhat thawed. "My sister is certainly capable of taking care of herself, sir, and I very much doubt that she is afraid of my displeasure." He offered a smile that went a lot farther toward melting his expression.
"If she's been feeding you stories of my temper, I'm afraid I will have to assure you that my bark is considerably worse than my bite."
This was much better, Charlie thought. "Well, that's fine. I'd have been real sorry to make trouble between a brother and sister." He turned to the girl. "So what's say we give it another round?"
She laughed and shook her head. "Sorry, Charlie. I think we've left our friends alone long enough. Be a shame to offend them."
Charlie's eyes flicked to the table where the four turtles sat, silent now, saucer eyes turned toward—the dance floor? Or the three of them? Charlie didn't know, though his stomach seemed to think it did.
Carefully, he made his bows—a low one to her, hand over heart, a slighter one to him, hands folded at belt level—and received theirs in return. He watched until they were back at their table before turning again to his duties as bouncer and peacemaker, his feelings in disarray.
VAL CON WAITED until they were both seated and the talk of Clutch began its sonorous weaving around them once more. He poured wine for the two of them and tasted his, playing for more time as he struggled to smooth out the unaccustomed emotion—anger, he told himself in vague consternation. He caught a glimmer of the Loop. CPS was at .79.
Taking up her own glass, Miri watched the side of his face. It was no longer the face she associated with lies and death, but neither was it the face of her charming companion of the early evening. Calling herself a fool did not improve matters, so she leaned back in her chair, sipped wine and waited for the storm to break.
Finally, he took a deep breath. "Miri."
"Yo."
"You must understand," he said slowly, watching the eddy and flow of people in the South quarter, rather than her face, "that I am a highly trained individual. This means that I react quickly to situations I perceive as dangerous. Given your present circumstance, to go while I am not in the room and dance with a man who carries two guns is—"
"One gun," she corrected. "You're seeing double."
"Two guns." There was very nearly a snap in the usually even voice. "Do not blame me because you are blind."
She sucked air in through her teeth, searched out and found Charlie in the crowd by the near bar, talking to a fat woman, and stared at him, considering.
"One gun," she repeated. "In the belt."
"Second gun," he instructed, still snapping. "Sleeve pocket, right-hand side. Also the belt itself is a weapon, in that it contains a device by which he may call for aid."
It was there—now she could see the flat outline of a pellet gun in the pocket of his right sleeve. It would be a more serviceable weapon, she thought absently, than the pretty toy in his belt. She picked up her glass and tossed back the rest of her wine, heaving a huge sigh.
"I apologize," she said as he refilled her glass. "And I'll arrange to get my eyes checked in the morning."
THERE WERE TO be fireworks over the ocean at midnight.
When the meaning of this announcement had been made clear to him by his youngest brother, the musician, there was nothing for it but that Edger must attend. Here was yet another manifestation of what he was pleased to name the Art Ephemeral: Only think of something made but that it may unmake!
Selector and Sheather had no interest in this display of art and made known their joint desire to walk about the city and see what wonders unfolded. This decided, they took their leave of the rest of the party, who each had another glass of whatever it was they were drinking, to pass the time until midnight.
"Would you bear me company tomorrow morning, brother?" Val Con asked Handler. "I've an errand to run, and your assistance would be valuable to me."
Handler inclined his head. "I am at the service of my brother's brother."
"An errand, young brother?" Edger asked. "Of an artistic nature, perhaps?"
Val Con laughed. "Hardly. It only seems to me that Miri and I will soon require transportation and I wish to arrange for it before the moment is upon us."
"My brother is wise. But know that our ship, which is at dock at the so-named Station Prime in orbit about this planet, is at your command, should you have need." He paused, his large, luminous eyes on the small form of his brother. "You are an honored member of the Clan, Val Con yos'Phelium Scout. Do not forget."
Val Con froze in the act of placing his glass on the table, then completed the action slowly. "You are too generous. I am made glad by your goodness and thank you. But I do not think we will need to commandeer your ship, Edger."
"Nonetheless," the T'carais said, quaffing beer, "remember that it is yours at the speaking of a word, should the need arise."
"I will remember," his brother promised softly.
"It is sufficient," Edger announced. "Now then, who accompanies me to this fireworks display?"
"I shall, elder brother," Handler offered, finishing off his beer in a swallow.
Miri smothered a yawn. "I'm sorry, Edger, but I'm so tired I'm afraid I'd go to sleep in the middle and fall into the ocean."
"Ah. But that would not happen," Edger told her, "for your brothers would surround and protect you. If you are very tired, however, it would be wisdom to return to your room and sleep. That is, unless you long to see this wonder?"
"Fireworks? I seen fireworks before. Guess I can miss this batch."
"Have you so, indeed? We will have to compare observations upon the morrow, if you would honor me?" He heaved his bulk to a standing position, extending an arm to steady Handler, who appeared to have drunk one beer too many.
Miri stifled another yawn and grinned up at the hugeness of him. "Sure, we'll talk fireworks tomorrow. Why not?"
"It is well. Young brother, what will you?"
Val Con stood to help Miri ease back her chair and winced imperceptibly when she ignored the arm he offered. "I will go with Miri back to the rooms, I think," he told Edger. "I am tired, also."
"We will look forward to seeing you upon the morrow, then. Sleep deeply. Dream well."
Miri watched as Edger and Handler wove their majestic way across the crowded floor. That they did not bump into and seriously maim some innocent merrymaker, she noted, was not so much due to the elegance of their progress as it was to the vigilance of those same merrymakers. She grinned at her companion.
"Drunk as judges, as they say in my hometown."
"Why judges?" he wondered, allowing her to precede him around the table.
"Where I come from, Tough Guy, the only people dumb enough to be judges are drunks."
They threaded a less spectacular route through the bright swirls of people, arriving at the South door at the same time Charlie Naranshek came through the gateway of the two bars, on the second leg of his round.
"Aw, now, Roberta, you're not going to leave without one more dance, are you?"
Her brother, walking at her shoulder, spun quickly and neatly, his eyes locking with Charlie's. She turned more slowly, grinned, and shook her head.
"Charlie, I'm beat! Exhausted. Done in." She waved a tiny hand at the noisy crowd. "Whyn't you go find yourself a live one?"
"Am I gonna see you again?" he asked, putting as much schmaltz as he could manage into the question.
She laughed and took her brother's arm, turning him with her toward the door. "If you look hard. Take care of yourself, Charlie."
"You do the same, Roberta," he told the empty doorway, and turned back to finish his beat.