A crimson-and-gold shaft of light swept across the dance floor. Kyd stood watching the dancers on the floor, and those weightless in the sparkling senso-probe field overhead. She let her head bob to the urgent, bass-heavy thrum of the music.
O'Reilly's Lie High Club, she thought with a wry shake of her head. Of all places. Yes, she knew it. It was one of her hangouts, too. But she'd kept a straight face in answer to Pali's question.
The Lie High was an enormous place, with a dance area encircled by tables and staggered balconies and several long, curved bars. The musicians' dais floated in the center of the senso-field, above the dance floor. The club was lighted mostly by the senso-field itself and by fans of light that swept down from the ceiling, changing color with the pulse of the music. Kyd liked the theatrical atmosphere. It brought back childhood memories of stage shows she'd attended with her grandfather—memories of a happier time before she'd become a slave to her own peculiar abilities, before her childhood had been lost. Before she'd gotten herself into this most peculiar and uncomfortable situation. It was a living, she thought; but she disliked living a lie.
She surveyed the area, letting the music flow through her, and finally meandered toward the nearest of the bars. "Gil," she called.
"Howdy, Kyd!" said a bushy-headed bartender. "What can I get you?"
"Mineral fizz. How's it been?"
Gil tugged at the corners of a dark mustache. "Slow tonight." He poured the drink, sparkling under the bar lights, and slid it across to her. "What's new with you?"
Kyd shrugged and sipped her drink. She turned and watched the dancers while Gil served another customer. When he was free again, she asked, "Gil, do you know a fellow by the name of Ramo? Ramo Romano?"
"Ramo—?" Gil scratched his head, then laughed. "You mean the crazy Brazilian?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure—"
"That's what we call him," Gil said. "I have no idea if he's actually Brazilian. Sure, I know him. But I don't think he's your type." She arched her eyebrows and Gil added hastily, "Don't get me wrong. But he's a bit of a mover, and you're a classy lady." Kyd felt a blush rise to her face. Gil grinned, and gestured queryingly to the next customer. "He's an artist of some sort, I hear."
"You happen to know if he's here tonight?" Kyd said.
"Dunno. Let me ask." Gil filled the customer's order, then strolled to the other end of the bar and spoke with his partner before strolling back. "Ozzie says he's here—probably out on the floor."
"What's he look like?" Kyd turned to scan the dance area. She felt Gil's quizzical stare behind her. "I just want to talk to him," she said testily.
Gil shrugged, hiding a grin. "None of my business." He shaded his eyes and pointed. "There he is. The guy up in the senso—in the red and orange suit."
Kyd raised her eyes to the dancers floating in the air. It took a moment; then she spotted him—a brightly dressed man performing wild gyrations in the air. She watched him curiously. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't see his face. Was it possible that she knew him?
Only one way to find out. With a wink at Gil, she headed toward the dance floor for a better look.
* * *
It was impossible to tell anything from floor level. After a few minutes Kyd sighed, set her glass on an empty table, and slipped through the crowd toward the riser-beam.
The golden light caught her full in the face. Dazzled, she turned her palms up and let the beam read the charge-chip in her finger. Then she spun and strode, the beat of the band pulsing in her feet now, and the shaft slanted, keeping her centered in its spotlight as she danced through the crowd until the man in orange and red somersaulted overhead. She snapped her fingers and raised her hands high.
She scarcely felt her feet leave the floor; but through the glow, she saw the other dancers falling away beneath her. She rose like an angel, borne on a golden beam of light until it intersected with the green sparkle of the senso-probe. As the riser-field merged into the dance-field, she touched a switch on her belt and her grey blouse came alight with rippling colors and shimmered with patches of fractional-second transparency. She began to move to the music again.
Another kind of glow entered into her; she felt the welcoming movements of the other dancers, the sensation flowing into her from the field. The music began touching her not just in her ears but in her mind, as the senso took hold. The shifting lights and weightlessness caressed her like a breeze, and images and emotions that were not her own blossomed within her. Someone was thinking of a woods, and someone else of laughter and sun and clouds; and several were dreaming of erotic love. The images twinkled into life and vanished again with the movement of the music.
For a while she kept to herself, allowing her sensations to slip gradually into the field, mingling with those of the other dancers. It was a light rain of mood and feeling, and she let herself become relaxed by it, the music and the lights and the mood; and she rotated in the air, swinging gently, watching her fellow dancers.
At last she turned for a look at her flamboyant quarry, Ramo Romano. He was an olive-complexioned man with dark curly hair and vivid golden browns eyes, and he was wearing a blazing red great-sleeved shirt and brilliant orange pants. He was dancing solo with broad, rhythmic movements and a self-assured, almost arrogant nonchalance. His gaze met hers—and instantly she thought, You! She struggled to keep the beat of the dance and to contain her emotions at the same time. She knew why he'd looked familiar; it was because she'd fought off his advances, more than once, right here at the Lie High Club.
For a heartbeat, the field rippled with the heat lightning of her confused reactions. Ramo cocked his head and grinned broadly. He winked and flapped his arms and hopped side to side in rhythmic gyrations, his great red sleeves billowing like wings. Kyd began to twist away in helpless consternation, but he turned sideways in the air and spun, and she laughed in spite of herself. While Ramo completed his whirl, she recomposed herself. By the time he'd straightened up, she was bobbing again with the music, watching him with studied casualness.
Ramo, however, was grinning widely. Kyd immediately realized: one, that he remembered her, probably better than she remembered him; and two, that he was staring without a trace of embarrassment at her blouse. Streams of color were racing through it, and the fabric was flickering, giving microsecond glimpses of her torso and her breasts. It was not particularly risqué as costumes went here; but perhaps, she thought, his interest was a little too strong. She twisted away, and her hand touched her belt, shortening the duration of the transparency.
When she spun back, Ramo was close enough to touch. She saw now that he was at least mildly intoxicated, and it wasn't going to be easy to stay out of his reach. She kept her hands in motion—to the front and up and down. Her hips moved of their own accord as the band segued into a jazzy drumsynth number, and in her head was a flurry of lust—not hers—and ripples of enthusiasm from somewhere else in the field. There was a psychedelic flutter of light, and in the cover of the strobe effect, she floated backward and rotated away.
Throughout that number, everywhere she turned, Ramo was mugging at her, flopping his head from side to side or mouthing words that she was grateful she couldn't hear. She caught her breath in the pause following the number and, spinning slowly away, hoped that by the time the band took a break, she could gather her wits for another encounter. She didn't need any tricks to attract him, that was certain. The pause stretched longer, and Ramo drifted around in front of her, beaming, and then she realized that the band had already left the dais.
"Hi-i-i there," Ramo drawled. She nodded, searching for an opening remark, and he added, "You couldn't stay away. That's okay, I'm used to it." He pumped his arms up and down; the motion drove him toward her.
Kyd crossed her arms. "Couldn't stay away?" she echoed mockingly; but she was so amused by his absurdly earnest expression that she couldn't help chuckling.
He was startled and delighted. If she was throwing down the gauntlet, he accepted gleefully. "You didn't come here just to admire my dancing."
"No. I came to admire my dancing."
"I admire your dancing," Ramo said, his eyes roving over her body. "Even when you're not dancing." His gaze lingered over her crossed arms.
"I'm so glad." Kyd gave her body a slow twist away. Her hand brushed her belt and clicked off the transparency effect.
"You don't act very glad." He crossed his own arms as he drifted after her, floating at a forty-five-degree angle. He shook his head, and his curly hair bobbed as though on springs.
"Well-l-l, Mr. Romano . . ." she said, imitating his drawl.
"Ah! You learned my name. You are interested. You came to see me." His face lighted in triumph. "Call me Ramo. Ray-mo! Please."
Kyd sighed. "I came here to talk to you, Mr.—Ramo."
"Talk?" he shouted. "You came to dance! To feast upon the music with me—to share with me your spirit—to drink my admiration of your beauty! I know women, and I know—"
"Ramo, I came to talk."
"—how you cannot say yes, and yet, deep in your heart there is no way you can say no. Your beauty is—"
"Talk, Ramo. Talk!"
He hovered close to her, his hands framing her face as though for a picture. "So you say, yes." Chuckling, he began dancing in place, humming the refrain of the last song. He paused and cocked his head. "Why aren't you talking? This is your chance."
"Shall we go down?" Kyd suggested.
"Eh?" He straightened and looked dismayed.
"Down where we can talk? In privacy?"
Ramo gazed at her with exaggerated soulfulness. "Ah," he said softly. "Privacy." He smiled. He clapped his hands once, twice. A shaft of red light enveloped him, isolating him from the senso-field.
Kyd clapped likewise. Together, in matching beams, they descended to the floor.
* * *
The light of a tremendous waterfall illuminated both of their faces. Kyd was pacing before the gigantic holo that faced the balcony while Ramo followed her. He moved to cut her off.
"Stop it, Ramo!" she insisted.
"But why did you come, then?" Ramo spread his arms, and his great-sleeves billowed.
"Problems down there?" called a male voice from the nearby bar. A tall, blondish bartender was watching.
"It's all right, Smitty. Thanks," Kyd called back. To Ramo, she said, "If you would try listening a minute . . ." Growling in frustration, she faced the balcony railing and looked out over the club. She hadn't expected him to be so singleminded.
"You looked very beautiful before, you know," Ramo said, alongside her.
She sighed. "What?"
"You looked even more beautiful before you turned off your—" Ramo gestured at her blouse.
Kyd glanced down. Her blouse was dark grey in the light of the holo. She fingered the switch at her belt. "Would you like the colors back?" she said softly.
"The colors, and the"—Ramo made a careless gesture—"the other."
She allowed a tiny smile. "Just the colors," she said, pressing the switch. Her blouse remained opaque, but soft shades of red, as though glowing out of the satin itself, rippled in gentle waves across her.
"Ah, but you have such beautiful—"
"Ramo!" she said, interrupting him. "We have business to discuss."
He held his forehead. "Ow! Business? How can you? Here?"
"I'm sorry. I thought you were an artist first and a playboy second." She sighed carefully. "I'm disappointed."
Ramo started. "Artist," he muttered. "Hah!"
"Isn't that how you earn your living?"
He shrugged morosely. "So a few of us are allowed to scratch out a living from our art. Do you know why? It's because we're pawns, hired to keep the masses happy. That's why." He stared at her with a hard, accusing expression. "Do you know anyone who truly cares for art?"
"Well . . ." Kyd was startled by his cynicism, not that it wasn't justified. "Maybe not to the extent you'd like. But that doesn't mean nobody cares. In fact . . . I was hoping that you'd be interested in discussing a project with me. A large project—an important project—for which we have need of a good sculptor."
Ramo scowled.
"But I didn't know you felt such contempt for your own work. I'd been told differently." She looked away. "I'm sorry. I won't take any more of your time." She turned to leave.
"Wait!" Ramo cried. She paused, staring out over the dance floor. "You wish to work?" he said. "Together? You and I?"
She slowly swung back to face him.
His eyes clouded. "Come. Please," he said mutedly. He guided her toward a table. "Please! A thousand apologies, please! Let us sit and talk together, you and I."