Stein whacked his new buddy on the back and Voorhees clutched the edge of the bar. “Come on, Richard! I’ll pop for halvsies!”

“I c’d call the guy up ri’ now,” said the smirking host. “Bet he’d meetcha at the oper’house.”

So they did work it out, and in the end Stein piloted the egg with the half-conscious Richard and a case of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild ’95 down to the Cours Lafayette of sleeping Lyon, where a furtive figure guided them into the parking subway and then through a maze of turned-off walkways to the opera’s backstage rooms and costumery.

“That one,” Richard said at last, pointing.

“So! Der fliegende Hollander!” said the impresario. “Never would have pegged you for that one, guy.”

He helped Richard to put on the seventeenth-century garb, which included a rich black doublet with slashed sleeves and a wide lace collar, black breeches, funnel-top boots that folded over, a short cape, and a wide-brimmed hat with a black plume.

“By damn, that’s more like it!” Stein whacked Richard on the back. “You make a pretty good pirate. So that’s what you’re like deep down inside, huh? A reg’lar fuckin’ Blackbeard?”

“Black Mushtash,” said Voorhees. He collapsed, out cold.

Stein paid off the impresario, flew them back to the darkened cafe to transfer Richard’s luggage from the rented egg, and then hopped it for L’Auberge du Portail. By the time they got there, the ex-spacer had revived.

“Let’s have another drink,” Stein suggested. “Try my oh-dee-vee.”

Richard took a swallow of the raw spirit. “Not mush bouquet… but consider’ble authority!”

The two costumed roisterers went singing through the rose garden and pounded on the oaken door of the inn with the blunt side of Stein’s battle-axe.

The staff responded unperturbed. They were used to having clients arrive in a more or less fuddled condition. Six powerful attendants took charge of the Viking and Black Mustache, and in no time at all they were snoring between lavender-scented sheets.

Felice Landry and the psychosocial counselor strolled into the flagged courtyard of the auberge, down an open passage, and into an office that looked out at the fountain and flowers. The room had been copied from the study of a fifteenth-century abbess. The stone fireplace with its bogus coat of arms had a huge bouquet of scarlet gladioli fanned between dog-headed andirons.

“You’ve come such a long way, Citizen Landry,” said the counselor. “It’s a pity that your application has encountered such difficulties.”

He leaned back in the carved chair, forming a church-and-steeple with his fingers. He had a pointed nose, a perpetual half-smile, and tightly curled black hair with a flashy white blaze in front. His eyes were wary. He had read her profile. Still, she looked docile enough in that gray-blue gown, twisting her poor little fingers in anxiety.

Kindly, he said, “You see, Felice, you’re really very young to be contemplating such a serious step. As you may know, the first custodian of the time-portal”, he nodded to an oil portrait of the sainted Madame that hung above the fireplace, “set a minimum age of twenty-eight years for her clients. Now, we may agree today that Angélique Guderian’s restriction was arbitrary, based upon antiquated Thomistic notions of psychomaturation. But nevertheless, the basic principle does remain quite valid. Fully formed judgement is essential for life-and-death decisions. And you are eighteen. I’m sure you are far more mature than most persons of your age, but nevertheless, it would be prudent to wait a few more years before opting for Exile. There is no return, Felice.”

I am harmless and afraid and small. I am in your power and I need your help so badly and would be so grateful. “You’ve studied my profile, Counselor Shonkwiler. I’m rather a mess.”

“Yes, yes, but that can be treated, Citizen!” He leaned forward and took her cool hand. “We have so many more facilities here on Earth than were available on your home planet Acadie is so remote! It’s hardly to be expected that the counselors out there would have the latest therapy techniques. But you could go to Vienna or New York or Wuhan, and the top people would certainly be able to smooth out your little SM problem and the male-envious hyperaggression. There would be only the smallest bit of personality derangement. You would be quite as good as new when the course of treatment was finished.”

The melting and submissive brown eyes began to brim up. “I’m sure you have only my best interests at heart, Counselor Shonkwiler. But you must try to understand.” Pity, aid, empathize, condescend to help the pathetic little ones “I prefer to remain the way I am. That’s why I’ve refused treatment. The thought of other persons manipulating my mind, changing it, fills me with the most dreadful fear. I just couldn’t permit it!”

I wouldn’t permit it.

The counselor moistened his lips and suddenly realized that he was stroking her hand. He gave a start, dropped it, and said, “Well, your psychosocial problems wouldn’t ordinarily preclude transfer into Exile. But besides your youth, there is the second matter. As you are aware, the Concilium does not permit persons having operant metapsychic powers to pass into Exile. They are too valuable to the Milieu. Now, your tests show that you are possessed of latent metafunctions with coercive, psychokinetic, and psychocreative potentials of extremely high magnitude. No doubt these were partly responsible for your success as a professional athlete.”

She showed a smile of regret, then slowly dropped her head so that the now limp platinum hair curtained her face. “That’s all over now. They wouldn’t have me any longer.”

“Quite so,” said Shonkwiler. “But if your psychosocial problems were successfully dealt with, it might be possible for the people at the MP Institute to bring up your latent abilities to operant status. Think what that would mean! You would become one of the elite of the Milieu, a person of vast influence, a literal world shaker! What a noble career you might have, spending yourself in service to a grateful galaxy. You might even aspire to a role in the Concilium!”

“Oh, I could never think of doing that. It’s frightening to think of all those minds… Besides, I could never give up what I am. There must be a way for me to put through the time-portal, even if I am underage. You must help me find the way, Counselor!”

He hesitated. “The recidivist clause might have been invoked if the unfortunate MacSweeney and Barstow had elected to press charges. There is no age restriction for recidivists.”

“I should have thought of that myself!” Her smile of relief was dazzling. “Then it’s all so simple!”

She rose and came around to Shonkwiler’s side of the desk. Still smiling, she took both his shoulders in her cool little hands, pressed with the thumbs, and snapped his collarbones.