"The radio was Renzi's doing?"

"Yes. He confessed earlier this evening while we watched the gambling. The fool was high and thought it a joke. I'll give him a joke. If he ever lands on this world again it won't be on my ship." Tuvey swallowed and lifted his hand in a brisk salute; one learned half a galaxy away when young. "I've kept you standing out here long enough. Good night, madam."

"Good night, Captain."

Politeness which held a cold formality, the formality itself a sense of security. Rules by which people chose to live; a custom which could be appreciated and a discipline which provided support as well as barriers. Did the Choud have something similar? Were there areas of privacy into which none could intrude without condemnation?

Why had Cornelius broken his word?

The answer was in the studio and she paused at the door seeing the figure slumped in the chair before the easel and feeling a sharp anxiety before she noticed the rise and fall of his chest, heard the susurration of ragged breathing.

"Cornelius!" He was asleep, sunk in a numbing exhaustion, not even the slap of her palm against his cheek enough to arouse him. "Cornelius, wake up!" Again she slapped the flaccid cheek. "Wake up!"

"Who-" He stirred, one hand lifting, the fingers thickly smeared with paint. "What-"

"Wake up!" Spirit stood close at hand. She gushed it on a rag and held the rising vapors beneath his nostrils. "Cornelius! Please!"

He stirred again, the hand blindly groping, eyelids twitching. She thrust the rag beneath his nose, the sting of the spirit against delicate membranes an added stimulus, then, as he reared a little, kissed him full on the lips.

"Sardia!" He rose higher to sit upright, his arms closing around her. "Sardia, my darling!"

The kiss had been a wind kindling latent desire to a dancing flame. She felt it as she retreated, sensed her own response, and rose to step backward well away from his reach.

"You promised to join me. What happened?"

"I was working and must have lost track of time." He ran a hand through his hair. "God, I feel exhausted. The box. Pass me that box."

She handed it to him and watched as he opened it to reveal swollen yellow pods. He lifted one and slipped it into his mouth, biting, leaning back as he chewed. The transformation was amazing, within seconds the muscles of his face had firmed, the flaccidity born of fatigue washed away together with his fatigue.

"Tekoa," he said. "At times it helps. Helps you to relax, that is. Helps you to drift and think and plan and see everything in bright colors." Fatigue had given way to euphoria and he sensed it. With an effort he added, "I don't use it often."

"Would it matter if you did?"

"Perhaps not but-" He broke off, giggling, becoming abruptly sober again. "I'm sorry. It hits you like this sometimes. The contrast-don't worry about it. I'll get over it soon."

She said nothing, staring at the easel, the canvas it supported, the picture he had painted since she had seen him last.

Herself?

She stepped closer, looking at the figure, a female, seated on plain boards, one knee lifted, the face resting on the summit of the curve. A woman dressed in a soiled costume with tinsel wings drooping like the tattered vanes of a butterfly, the body-garment accentuating the tired drag of breasts and stomach. A dancer as she could tell from the shoes. And it was so real.

Leaning closer she could smell the greasepaint, the odor of dried sweat, the female exudations caught and held by the fabric of the costume. Feel, too, the rough boards beneath her buttocks, the aching fatigue, the depression. The performance was over, the audience gone, the lights dimmed and now she sat alone. A woman who had danced the part of an angel. One now fallen. One soiled and dirtied and conscious of her state.

Herself?

She had sat before the window, tall, gracious, the light warm on the smooth contours of her body. Her head had been high, the chin uplifted in proud grace, the lips carefully arranged in a smile-and Cornelius had been unable to freeze the picture with his genius. Instead, after she had gone, he had created his own interpretation. A dancer, soiled, degraded, disconsolate -was that how he saw her?

She looked even more carefully and more details sprang to life. The barely seen lines on the face which gave it an air of corruption. The eyes which told of cynicism. The lips which told of standards lost never to be regained. Even the curve of the fingers had been made to resemble claws avid in their greed. A woman who had sold herself for ambition. Who had accepted compromise and the use to which her body could be put. The face of a cheat, a liar, a thief, a whore.

Her face.

Sardia turned and ran from the studio, crying, feeling naked and ashamed.

The guard was young, confident of his ability and impatient to be getting on with the job. The leader of a score of others, all young men of the Choud taking their turn of duty and excited at the prospect of interesting action.

Dumarest said, "Be sure and check the walls, floors and roof. Don't forget the outside of the roof as well as the inner rafters. Check every item of furniture. If you find anyone who insists on staying in bed then move him and search the bedding. Even if they are sick move them just the same. You understand?"

"We know what to do."

"I hope so. Look into cupboards, cabinets, cradles. Check toys and boxes and privies. Don't forget the people; watch their eyes as you search. A glance could give you a lead."

Again the man said, "Leave it to us. We know what to do."

A confidence Dumarest didn't share. Though young and confident they would lack experience but he had done all he could. As they moved off into the darkness Ursula said, "If you're wrong, Earl, I'll be the laughing stock of Ath."

"And if I'm not?"

He saw the answer in her eyes, the sudden warmth which accompanied the touch of her hand. She would be grateful; no member of the Choud wanted to be host to a fool, and in her gratitude she would tell him what he needed to know.

"Earl, let's go inside. It's getting chill." She shivered beneath the cloak she had flung over her shoulders.

"Pre-dawn adventures are all right for men wearing heavy garments but I'm not fond of hardship. Let us go into the house and you can share my bath and we can talk of your past exploits."

"I'd rather be with the guards."

"I know. You men are like boys. You want action and incident and the fun of giving orders. And you want to be proved right, Earl. But there is nothing you can do more than what is being done. All exits from the area have been sealed, the region cut into sections and already the first divisions are being checked. If explosives are there the guards will find them."

Dumarest frowned, the decision to search had been recent, how had men been moved into position so quickly? He hadn't even heard them alerted.

Then, remembering the crossbow, he said, "I hope they aren't stupid enough to underestimate the Ohrm. They have weapons which can kill."

Weapons they were willing to use. Dumarest heard the scream as they moved across the lawn toward the house and felt Ursula stiffen at his side. It came again, a long, wailing shriek which ended in an ugly gurgle. The sound torn from a man with punctured lungs who had tried to run and had fallen to scream his pain before blood had filled his throat.

"They were waiting," he said. "And ready."

"For what?"

"The guards, the search, they expected it." He looked up toward the ridge, seeing moving points of light against the sky. "They could be coming down here to attack the city."

"No, those lights belong to the guards. They will protect us." She clung to his arm. "No, Earl! Stay here with me!"

"And listen as they die?" Another scream had seared the night. "Don't those fools know enough to stay under cover?"