“I charge people what they can afford,” Kathy said, once more setting up her line of type. “I’m going to charge you a lot because I can tell you’re rich, by the way you gave Eddy five hundred dollars to get you here, and by your suit. Okay?” Briefly she glanced in his direction. “Or am I wrong? Tell me.”

“I have five thousand dollars on me,” Jason said. “Or, rather, less five hundred. I’m a world-famous entertainer; I work a month every year at the Sands in addition to my show. In fact, I appear at a number of first-class clubs, when I can squeeze them into my tight schedule.”

“Gee,” Kathy said. “I wish I had heard of you; then I could be impressed.”

He laughed.

“Did I say something stupid?” Kathy asked timidly.

“No,” Jason said. “Kathy, how old are you?”

“I’m nineteen. My birthday is in December, so I’m almost twenty. How old did you think I am by looking at me?”

“About sixteen,” he said.

Her mouth turned down in a childlike pout. “That’s what everybody says,” she said in a low voice. “It’s because I don’t have any bosom. If I had a bosom I’d look twenty-one. How old are you?” She stopped fiddling with her type and eyed him intently. “I’d guess about fifty.”

Fury flowed through him. And misery.

“You look like your feelings are hurt,” Kathy said.

“I’m forty-two,” Jason said tightly.

“Well, what’s the difference? I mean, they’re both—”

“Let’s get down to business,” Jason broke in. “Give me a pen and paper and I’ll write down what I want and what I want each card to say about me. I want this done exactly right. You better be good.”

“I made you mad,” Kathy said. “By saying you look fifty. I guess on closer examination you really don’t. You look about thirty.” She handed him pen and paper, smiling shyly. And apologetically.

Jason said, “Forget it.” He patted her on the back.

“I’d rather people didn’t touch me,” Kathy said; she slid away.

Like a fawn in the woods, he thought. Strange; she’s afraid to be touched even a little and yet she’s not afraid to forge documents, a felony that could get her twenty years in prison. Maybe nobody bothered to tell her it’s against the law. Maybe she doesn’t know.

Something bright and colorful on the far wall caught his attention; he walked over to inspect it. A medieval illuminated manuscript, he realized. Or rather, a page from it. He had read about them but up until now he had never set eyes on one.

“Is this valuable?” he asked.

“If it was the real thing it might be worth a hundred dollars,” Kathy said. “But it’s not; I made it years ago, when I was in junior high school at North American Aviation. I copied it, the original, ten times before I had it right. I love good calligraphy; even when I was a kid I did. Maybe it’s because my father designed book covers; you know, the dust jackets.”

He said, “Would this fool a museum?”

For a moment Kathy gazed intently at him. And then she nodded yes.

“Wouldn’t they know by the paper?”

“It’s parchment and it’s from that period. That’s the same way you fake old stamps; you get an old stamp that’s worthless, eradicate the imprint, then—” She paused. “You’re anxious for me to get to work on your ID,” she said.

“Yes,” Jason said. He handed her the piece of paper on which he had written the information. Most of it called for pol-nat standard postcurfew tags, with thumbprints and photographs and holographic signatures, and everything with short expiration dates. He’d have to get a whole new set forged within three months.

“Two thousand dollars,” Kathy said, studying the list.

He felt like saying, For that do I get to go to bed with you, too? But aloud he said, “How long will it take? Hours? Days? And if it’s days, where am I—”

“Hours,” Kathy said.

He experienced a vast wave of relief.

“Sit down and keep me company,” Kathy said, pointing to a three-legged stool pushed off to one side. “You can tell me about your career as a successful TV personality. It must be fascinating, all the bodies you have to walk over to get to the top. Or did you get to the top?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “But there’s no bodies. That’s a myth. You make it on talent and talent alone, not what you do or say to other people either above or below you. And it’s work; you don’t breeze in and do a soft-shoe shuffle and then sign your contract with NBC or CBS. They’re tough, experienced businessmen. Especially the A and R people. Artists and Repertoire. They decide who to sign. I’m talking about records now. That’s where you have to start to be on a national level; of course you can work club dates all over everywhere until—”

“Here’s your quibble driver’s license,” Kathy said. She carefully passed him a small black card. “Now I’ll get started on your military service-status chit. That’s a little harder because of the full-face and profile photos, but I can handle that over there.” She pointed at a white screen, in front of which stood a tripod with camera, a flash gun mounted at its side.

“You have all the equipment,” Jason said as he fixed himself rigidly against the white screen; so many photos had been taken of him during his long career that he always knew exactly where to stand and what expression to reveal.

But apparently he had done something wrong this time. Kathy, a severe expression on her face, surveying him.

“You’re all lit up,” she said, half to herself. “You’re glowing in some sort of phony way.”

“Publicity stills,” Jason said. “Eight-by-ten glossy—”

“These aren’t. These are to keep you out of a forced-labor camp for the rest of your life. Don’t smile.”

He didn’t.

“Good,” Kathy said. She ripped the photos from the camera, carried them cautiously to her workbench, waving them to dry them. “These damn 3-D animateds they want on the military service papers—that camera cost me a thousand dollars and I need it only for this and nothing else … but I have to have it.” She eyed him. “It’s going to cost you.”

“Yes,” he said, stonily. He felt aware of that already.

For a time Kathy puttered, and then, turning abruptly toward him, she said, “Who are you really? You’re used to posing; I saw you, I saw you freeze with that glad smile in place and those lit-up eyes.”

“I told you. I’m Jason Taverner. The TV personality guest host. I’m on every Tuesday night.”

“No,” Kathy said; she shook her head. “But it’s none of my business—sorry—I shouldn’t have asked.” But she continued to eye him, as if with exasperation. “You’re doing it all wrong. You really are a celebrity—it was reflexive, the way you posed for your picture. But you’re not a celebrity. There’s no one named Jason Taverner who matters, who is anything. So what are you, then? A man who has his picture taken all the time that no one’s ever seen or heard of.”

Jason said, “I’m going about it the way any celebrity who no one has ever heard of would go about it.”

For a moment she stared at him and then she laughed. “I see. Well, that’s cool; that’s really cool. I’ll have to remember that.” She turned her attention back to the documents she was forging. “In this business,” she said, absorbed in what she was doing, “I don’t want to get to know people I’m making cards for. But”—she glanced up—“I’d sort of like to know you. You’re strange. I’ve seen a lot of types—hundreds, maybe—but none like you. Do you know what I think?”

“You think I’m insane,” Jason said.

“Yes.” Kathy nodded. “Clinically, legally, whatever. You’re psychotic; you have a split personality. Mr. No One and Mr. Everyone. How have you survived up until now?”

He said nothing. It could not be explained.

“Okay,” Kathy said. One by one, expertly and efficiently, she forged the necessary documents.

Eddy, the hotel clerk, lurked in the background, smoking a fake Havana cigar; he had nothing to say or do, but for some obscure reason he hung around. I wish he’d fuck off, Jason thought to himself. I’d like to talk to her more.