Jerry, the bartender, sent up a pint. Dan paused to sip from it, then in a small fit of self-awareness began the tune to which he had set "Miniver Cheevy." Soon, he was singing the words.

Somewhere past the halfway point, he noticed a frightened look on Jerry's face. He had just taken a step backward. The man immediately before him was leaning forward, hunched over his drink and looking ahead. By leaning back on the stool and craning his neck, Dan could just make out the lines of the small handgun the man held, partly wrapped in a handkerchief. He had never tried to stop one from firing and wondered whether he could. Of course, the trigger might well remain untugged. Jerry was already turning slowly toward the cash register.

The pulse in his right wrist deepened as he stared at a heavy mug and watched it slide along the bartop, as he shifted his gaze to an empty chair and saw it begin to creep forward. For those moments, a part of him seemed also to be a part of the chair and the mug.

Jerry rang up NO SALE and was counting out the bills from the register. The chair found its position behind the hunched gunman and halted, soundlessly. Dan sang on, castles fallen, dragons flown, troops scattered in the white haze about the lights.

Jerry returned to the counter and passed the man a wad of bills. They vanished quickly into a jacket pocket. The weapon was now completely covered by the handkerchief. The man straightened and slid from the stool, eyes and weapon still upon the bartender. As he moved backward and began to turn the chair lurched to reposition itself. His foot struck it and he stumbled, throwing out his hands to save himself.

As he sprawled, the mug rose from the counter and sped toward his head. When it connected, he lay still. The weapon in its white wrapping sped across the floor to vanish beneath the performer's platform in the corner.

Dan finished his song and took another drink. Jerry was beside the man, recovering the money. A knot of people had already formed at that end of the room.

"That was very strange."

He turned his head. It was Betty Lewis who had spoken. She had left the table near the wall where she had been sitting, sipping something, and approached the platform.

"What was strange?" he said.

"I saw that chair move by itself--the one he tripped on."

"Probably someone bumped it."

"No."

Now she was looking at him rather than the scene across the room.

"The whole thing was very peculiar. The mug ..." she said. "Funny things seem to happen when you're playing. Usually little things. Sometimes it's just a feeling."

He smiled.

"It's called mood. I'm a great artist."

He fingered a chord, ran an arpeggio. She laughed.

"No, I think you're haunted."

He nodded.

"Like Cheevy. By visions."

"Nobody's listening now," she said. "Let's sit down."

"Okay."

He leaned his guitar against the stool and took his beer to her table.

"You write a lot of your own stuff, don't you?" she said, after they had seated themselves.

"Yes."

"I like your music and your voice. Maybe we could work out a thing where we do a couple of numbers together."

"Maybe," he said, "if you've no objection to the strange things you say happen."

"I like strange things." She reached out and touched his hair. "That's real, isn't it--the streak?"

"Yes."

"At first I thought--you were a little weird."

"... And now you know it?"

She laughed.

"I suppose so. Someone said you're still in school? That right?"

"It is."

"You going to stay with music when you get out?"

He shrugged.

"Hard to say."

"You've got a future, I'd think. Ever record anything?"

"No."

"I had a record. Didn't do well."

"Sorry."

"The breaks... Maybe bad timing. Maybe not, too. I don't know. I'd really like to try something with you. See how it sounds. If it works, I know a guy..."

"My material?"

"Yeah."

He nodded.

"Okay. After the show, let's go somewhere and try a few."

"My place isn't far. We can walk"

"Fine."

He took a sip of beer, glanced over and saw that the man on the floor was beginning to stir. In the distance, he heard the sound of a siren. He heard someone ask, "Where's the gun?"

"It's a funny feeling I get when I hear you," she resumed, "as though the world were a little bit out of kilter."

"Maybe it is."

"... As though you tear a little hole through it and I can see a piece of something else on the other side."

"If I could only tear one big enough I'd step through."

"You sound like my ex-husband."

"Was he a musician?"

"No. He was a physicist who liked poetry."

"What became of him?"

"He's out on the Coast in a commune. Arts and crafts, gardening... Stuff like that."

"He up and leave, or he ask you to go with?"

"He asked, but I didn't want pig shit on my heels."

Dan nodded.

"I'll have to watch where I step if I ever step through."

The police car pulled up in front, its light turning, blinking. The siren died. Dan finished his drink as someone located the weapon.

"We'd look pretty good on an album cover," she said. "Especially with that streak. Maybe I could... Naw."

The man with the sore head was led away. Car doors slammed. The blinking stopped.

"I've got to go sing something," he said, rising. "Or is it your turn?"

She looked at her watch.

"You finish up," she said. "I'll just listen and wait."

He mounted the platform and took the guitar into his hands. The pillars of smoke began to intertwine.

The giant mechanical bird deposited Mark Marakson on the hilltop. Mark brushed back the soft green sleeve of his upper garment and pressed several buttons on the wide bracelet he wore upon his left wrist. The bird took flight again, climbing steadily. He controlled its passage with the wristband and saw through its eyes upon the tiny screen at the bracelet's center.

He saw that the way ahead was clear. He shouldered his pack and began walking. Down from the hill and through the woods he went, coming at last to a trail that led toward more open country. Overhead, his bird was but a tiny dot, circling.

He passed cultivated fields, but no habitations until he came within sight of his father's house. He had plotted his return route carefully.

His work shed stood undisturbed. He deposited his pack within it and headed toward the house.

The door swung shut behind him. The place seemed more disarrayed than he had ever before seen it.

"Hello!" he called. "Hello?"

There was no reply, He went through the entire house, finding no one. Dust lay thick everywhere. Marakas could well be in the field, or tending to any of the numerous chores about the place. But Melanie was usually in the house. He looked about outside, investigating the barns and work sheds, walked down to the ditches, scanned the fields. No one. He returned to the house and sought food for lunch. The larder was empty, however, so he ate of his own provisions. But he operated the wrist-control first, and the speck in the heavens ceased its circling and sped southward.

Disturbed, he began cleaning and straightening about the place. Finally, he went out to the shed and set to work assembling the unit he had brought with him.

It was on toward evening, his labors long finished, when he heard the sound of the approaching wagon. He departed the house, which he had set back in order, and awaited the vehicle's arrival.

He saw Marakas drive up to the barn and begin unhitching the team. He walked over to assist him.

"Dad..."he said. "Hello."

Marakas turned and stared at him. His expression remained blank for an instant too long. During that instant, it struck Mark what had troubled him about his father's movements, his reaction time: he was more than a little drunk.