"Anything?" Boo-Boo asked her out of the side of his mouth.

"Not a thing," she said.

"Do me now," Michael Scott said, coming over to loom over them. He was the tallest of the band members, and his blue eyes burned into Liz's like Green Fire's lasers. "I've plenty to get on with."

For a moment Liz was reduced to a quivering blob of adoring teenage fan. Here was the Guitarchangel, close enough to touch, and twice as handsome as any photo she had ever seen. Those sharp cheekbones, and that long, black hair! But her Departmental training shoved the adolescent firmly into a mental cupboard and locked the door.

"We are sorry for the inconvenience," she said, briskly.

"You sound like a sign on the London Underground," Scott said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Could that be the hint of a smile? "Get on with it. I was playing at that edge of the stage." He pointed. Liz and Boo turned to look. Liz noticed the blast pattern, much attenuated. It outlined a semicircle in ash where the guitarist had been standing when the dress went up. "I didn't see the fire start. I had my back to the center. I was starting my solo."

"Right," said Jones, joining in. "The lights are down at first. Fee comes on in the darkness. Her dress starts flashing the symbols, then all lights come up at once. The musicians whirl around to see her. The spotlights start wigwagging across the stage. Lasers! Smoke! It's smashing. You'll love it at the concert."

A brass fire hose nozzle slid noisily behind his feet, and Jones jumped.

"If we ever get to the damned concert," Robbie Unterburger complained.

Green Fire's dressing rooms were under the stage beyond a security door that was held ajar with a rubber wedge. Nearby was a reception room that must be used for parties and interviews. At the moment it was full of equipment in and out of battered, black travel cases. Most of the gear was unfamiliar to Liz. She assumed a good deal of it was special-effects equipment, under the direction of Roberta Unterburger. An angry young woman, that. Every time Fee reached out for Lloyd Preston, Robbie flared up as if she could light the show without benefit of laser beams. Liz was sorry for her. Unrequited love might have been nice in poetry, but it was hell in practice. She wondered why the woman didn't quit her job, if she couldn't stand the realities of the situation. Then she thought about it—who wouldn't want to work for a world-famous rock band, no matter how hard it was on your heart? On Robbie's side, though, Kenneth Lewis kept staring at her the same way she did at Preston. He watched her when he thought she couldn't see, and turned his head away when she glanced his way. There was a neat little triangle going on, or quadrangle. All it needed was Fionna having unreturned feelings for Kenneth to really make a mess of the situation.

Fionna's dressing room was the largest and best appointed. The concrete floor had been carpeted over with a rich green plush, a compliment to her band and her hair. Instead of the acid fluorescent lights, she had floor lamps with restful low-watt bulbs. The singer herself was enthroned in a big armchair with Laura Manning on one side and Nigel Peters on the other offering her drinks and cigarettes. Someone had unpacked Fionna's possessions and arranged them around the room. Costumes of garish silks or black lace and tulle hung along the walls. The lighted mirror in the wall over the dressing table was supplemented by a double-ended magnifying mirror and a folding mirror, plus enough amulets arrayed along the rear of the table to open a shop. A couple of them did have the sniff of magic about them. They glowed feebly, to Liz's experienced eye, like a child's nightlights.

Enjoying an audience with Her Majesty was a plump man with a dapper summer-weight jacket slung over his shoulder by one finger.

"And there you are at last!" Fionna carolled. Her voice was a relaxed trill. The promised whiskey had obviously met a few friends on its way down her throat. "Meet Mr. Winslow. He's a true darling."

"Building management, ma'am, er... sir," the man in the white suit said, turning to offer a hand. "When I heard about this... regrettable accident I just had to come down and offer my support. Are you... with the show?" he asked, looking Boo-Boo's attire up and down.

"No, sir," Boo said. "I'm with the Department." He patted down several of his tattered pockets and came up with a shiny leather billfold. He flipped it open. "My credentials, sir."

Winslow's eyes widened as he examined the card and badge. "I see. I'm glad to see Miss Fionna has some... strong protectors. The fire marshall is upstairs now. They had to break in through the front doors, which will be replaced this afternoon, Mr. Peters," Winslow added, turning an eye to look over his shoulder.

"I'm glad to hear it," Peters said. "My people will offer every cooperation."

"Was there anyone strange in the building when the dress caught fire?" Boo-Boo asked the manager.

"God only knows. This place is the size of a palace, but everything was locked up. The rear doors were locked from the outside only. We had a grip stationed there to let our people in, but no one else. I suppose someone could have slipped in, and planted a booby trap."

"Which your Mr. Fitzgibbon... didn't see," Winslow pointed out. Peters looked disconcerted.

"Er, yes."

"I don't think it's too likely that what caused the trouble was in the dress itself," Boo-Boo said.

"It came from a distance, then?" Peters asked, uncomfortable. "Something was shot at him?" Fionna sat bolt upright in her chair with her lips pressed together. Liz wondered what Boo was thinking, but he gestured to her not to speak. He looked amiably at the building manager.

"Well, no. All that flash powder hovering in the air, and those laser lights, there could have been a little accident."

"Good!" Winslow exclaimed, then looked guilty. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Well, apart from Mr. Fitzgibbon having to make another dress."

Laura Manning waved the idea away. "Oh, don't worry about Tommy. He's probably in there at this moment inventing a new confection in silk and lace. He lives to suffer. Ask him. Why, he's even accused me of ruining his dresses with my nasty foundations and rouges. Greasepaint isn't up in that lofty sphere with haute couture."

"Excuse me, Mr. Winslow?" A man in firefighter's rig with a clipboard appeared at the door. "Fire marshall. Everything seems to be under control. The building's all right. The crews are withdrawing. You've got a mess up there, Mr. Winslow. Sorry about that, sir."

Winslow was gracious. "You're doing your very worthy job, Marshall. My thanks. My maintenance people... will already be on the job, Miss Fionna." He offered her a courtly little bow.

In sharp contrast to the courtesy of the building manager, Lloyd Preston pushed his way in, a scowl on his face. He stood over Fionna, who reached out a thin and, Liz thought, dramatically trembling hand to him. "Everything's okay. We can get right back to work."

"But," Liz began to protest. Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

"But what?" Lloyd demanded. Fionna sat bolt upright in her armchair, ready to flee the scene at the sound of a threat.

"But," Boo said loudly, drowning her out, "we'll be keeping an eye on things." He nodded knowingly to Fionna, who shot them a look of relief. "We'll get right on it." He took Liz's arm and hustled her out of the dressing room.