"Come on," Vanessa said, drawing her arm through his and guiding him away, leaning against him in a masque of romantic conversation. But as they turned the first corner they ran smack into a conversational group of three that blocked their passage.

"Van, you harlot!" greeted a young man in a pale blue suede jacket with metal-tipped fringe. "You've just taken our much-touted art expert here all for yourself and you're gobbling him all up!" He looked at Jonathan, his eyebrows arched in anticipation of an introduction.

Vanessa ignored him, turning to a middle-aged man wearing heavy clothes and an open, eager expression that had a canine flavor. "Sir Wilfred Pyles, Jonathan Hemlock. I believe your commission had something to do with getting him here."

"Good to see you here, Jon."

"You mean at this party, Fred?"

"Well, no. I meant in the country actually."

"Ah-ha!" Vanessa said. "I had no idea you two knew one another."

"Yes indeed," Sir Wilfred explained. "I've been an admirer of Jon's for years. But not as an art critic. I'm afraid I'm only one of those chaps who know what they like. No, my acquaintance with Jonathan Hemlock was under rather a different heading. I used to be an enthusiastic amateur mountaineer, don't you know. Just puffing about and hill bashing, really. But I read all the journals and became familiar with this fellow's exploits. And, when I had a chance to meet him, I grabbed it. That was-how long ago was it, Jon?"

Jonathan smiled, uncomfortable as he always was when talking about climbing. "I haven't climbed for years."

"Well, I shouldn't wonder. I mean-that must have been a nasty business on the Eiger. Three men, wasn't it?"

Jonathan cleared his throat "I don't climb seriously anymore."

"Not only that," Vanessa said, squeezing his arm, realizing that he wanted to change the subject, "he's given up serious criticism as well. Or haven't you read his latest bag of garbage?" She turned to the crisp, beautiful woman of uncertain years who stood beside Sir Wilfred. "And you are...?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry," Sir Wilfred said. "Mrs. Amelia Farquahar. A friend of mine, actually."

"No one's introduced me yet," the suede jacket said.

Vanessa patted his cheek. "That's because no one's noticed you yet, darling boy."

"Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that." But his peeve lasted only a second. "Actually, we were having a lively conversation when you broke in. Lively and a little naughty."

"Oh?" Vanessa asked Mrs. Farquahar.

"Yes. We were, in fact, discussing the myth of vaginal climax." Mrs. Farquahar turned to Jonathan. "What are your opinions on that, Dr. Hemlock?"

"As an art critic?"

"As a mountain climber, if you'd rather."

Sir Wilfred grunted. "All part of women's liberation, I shouldn't wonder. I hear you've been having quite a lot of that in your country."

"Mostly among the losers," Jonathan said, smiling.

Vanessa smiled back. "You turd."

"And you, Miss Dyke?" Mrs. Farquahar asked. "Do you have an opinion on that?"

Vanessa dropped her cigarette butt in suede jacket's wineglass. "I don't think it's a myth at all. The misconception is that it takes a penis to achieve it."

"How interesting," said Mrs. Farquahar.

"I say!" injected suede jacket, feeling somehow he had been left out of the conversation. "Did you read about that man found impaled in St. Martin's-In-The-Fields?"

"Oh, ghastly business," Sir Wilfred said.

"Oh, I don't know. If you have to go..." He wriggled a shoulder and took a sip of wine.

While he was coping with the mouthful of tobacco, Vanessa said to Mrs. Farquahar, "Come, let me introduce you to the young man who has drawn this sparkling company together."

"Yes. I'd like that."

They pushed off through the crowd, Vanessa leading the way and prowing through the congested sea of people. Suede jacket stood on tiptoe and waved extravagantly to someone who had just entered, then struggled off after a word of apology.

Jonathan and Sir Wilfred stood side by side against the wall. "What's all this about climbing, Fred?" Jonathan asked without looking at him. "You get a nosebleed from standing on a thick carpet."

"Just the first thing that came to my mind, Jon." The flappy tones of the bungling British civil servant dropped away from his speech.

"I see. Are you still in the service?"

"No, no. I've been on the shelf for several years now. The extent of my counterespionage activities now is trying to find out how much my chauffeur tells my wife."

"When I saw your name on my appointment to come over here, I assumed MI-5 had found you an elastic cover."

"I'm afraid not. I am well and truly out to pasture. The electronic age has caught up with me. One has to be a damned engineer these days to stay in the game. No, I serve my country by chairing committees devoted to the task of bringing cultural enrichment to our shores. You constitute a cultural enrichment." He laughed. "Who would have thought in the old days when we were flogging about Europe, now on the same team, now in opposition, that we would be brought so low."

"You doknow that I'm out of it totally now?" Jonathan wanted to be sure.

"Oh, certainly. First thing I checked upon when your name came up. The chaps at the old office said you were-to use their uncomplimentary compliment-politically subpotent. By which I take it that you and CII have parted company."

"That we have. By the way, congratulations on your knighthood."

"Not so much of an achievement as you might imagine. These days few people escape that distinction. When you leave the Service they automatically lumber you with a K.B.E. They've found it's cheaper than a gold watch, I suspect. Ah, the ladies return."

As she approached, Vanessa said to Jonathan, "I didn't lure you here just to punish you with my acquaintances. There's something I want to show you." She turned to Mrs. Farquahar. "Jon and I have to run off for a moment."

Mrs. Farquahar smiled and inclined her head.

In the hall where it was relatively quiet Jonathan asked, "What's this all about, Van?"

"You'll see. A chance for you to pick up some pocket money. But look, don't get uptight, and for God's sake, don't cause any trouble. That could be very bad for me." She led the way down a corridor, past the table at which the maids and caterer's assistants were flirting, to the door of a small private display room. "Come on."

Jonathan entered, then stopped short. A bronze Horse and Rider by Marino Marini stood in the center of a darkened room, its ragged modeling accented by the acute angle of a shaft of dramatically placed light. About forty inches high, a sand-colored forced patina, the modeling seemed to combine those primitive, lumpy Etrurian characteristics typical of Marini with an almost oriental twist of the heads of both horse and rider that was most uncharacteristic. But the fat rider's stubbed cigar of a penis was a Marini signature. Jonathan walked slowly around the casting, pausing occasionally to take in some detail, his concentration totally committed. So absorbed was he that it was a while before he noticed a man leaning against the far wall, posed under a dim light that had been arranged with almost as much care as that given to the Horse. He wore an extremely trendy suit of dusty gold velvet, and a ruffle of starched lace stood at his throat. His arms were folded across his chest, his stance poised and practiced, but an inner tension prevented his posture from appearing relaxed. He watched Jonathan steadily, following him with gray eyes so pale they seemed colorless.

Jonathan examined the man with frank curiosity. It was the most beautiful male bust he had ever seen-an unearthly, bloodless beauty such as masters of the Early Renaissance sometimes touched upon. Intuitively, he knew the man was aware of the effect of his cold beauty, and he had stationed himself in that particular light to heighten it.