Azure

The best way to build a mental picture of Azure is to begin with a

bunch of grapes. The bunch of grapes is cobalt-blue in hue and it is

part of a cobalt-blue cluster of similar bunches. The cluster hangs

upon a vine which is bursting with heart-shaped leaves, and the vine

is one of many similar vines that form a verdant row, in turn, is

one of many similar rows that form a verdant vineyard. You see them

now, do you not?--these lovely vineyards rolling away, and the white,

red-roofed houses in between?--the intervals of green and growing

fields in the blue swaths of rivers and the sparkling zigzags of little

streams?--the blue eyes of little lakes looking up into the warm blue

sky where big Sirius blazes and little Sirius beams? Now, picture

people working in the fields and in the vineyards; picture trees, and

children playing underneath them; picture housewives coming out back

doors and shaking homemade rugs that look like little rainbows; picture

toy-like trains humming over anti-grav beds from town to town, from

city to city, tying in the entire enchanting scheme of things with the

spaceport at _Vin Bleu_. Finally, picture a narrow road winding among

the vineyards, and a man walking along it. A man? No, not a man--a

ghost. A tall gaunt ghost in spectral space-clothes. A ghost named

Nathaniel Drake.

He had come many miles by train and he had visited many towns along

the way and talked with many merchants, and each time he had unfolded

the sample of pastelsilk he carried and held it up for inspection, and

each time the word had been no. In the town he had just left, the word

had been no too, and he knew by now that wherever he went on Azure the

word would be no also, but right now he did not care. Right now he was

about to carry out the ulterior purpose of his visit, and the ulterior

purpose of his visit had nothing to do with the selling of silk.

He could see the house already. It sat well back from the road. In

it, she had grown up. Along this very road, she had walked to school.

Between these verdant vineyards. Beneath this benign blue sky.

Sometimes during those green years she must have sinned.

Like all its neighbors, the house was white, its roof red-tiled. In

the middle of its front yard grew a Tree of Love, and the tree was

in blossom. Soon now, the blossoms would be falling, for autumn was

on hand. Already the time for the harvesting of the grapes had come.

Had she picked in these very vineyards? he wondered. Clad in colorful

clothing, had she walked along these growing banks of green and heaped

baskets with brilliant blue? And had she come home evenings to this

little white house and drenched her face with cool water from that

archaic well over there, and then gone inside and broken bread? And

afterward had she come outside and waited in the deepening darkness

for her lover to appear? Nathaniel Drake's pulse-beat quickened as he

turned into the path that led across the lawn to the small front porch.

No matter what Saint Andrew had said, Saint Annabelle Leigh could not

possibly have been all saint.

* * * * *

A girl in a yellow maternity dress answered the door. She had hyacinth

hair, blue eyes and delicate features. She gasped when she saw Drake,

and stepped back. "I've come about Annabelle Leigh," he said quickly.

"Did Saint Andrew radio you about what happened? He said he would. I'm

Nathaniel Drake."

The girl's fright departed as quickly as it had come. "Yes, he

did. Please come in, Mr. Drake. I'm Penelope Leigh--Annabelle's

sister-in-law."

The room into which he stepped was both pleasant and provincial. A long

wooden table stood before a big stone fireplace. There were cushioned

chairs and benches, and upon the floor lay a homemade hook-rug that

embodied all the colors of the spectrum. A big painting of the

Potomac Peregrination hung above the mantel. The marble figure of the

Emancipator had been huge to begin with, but over the centuries the

minds of men had magnified it into a colossus. Artists were prone to

reflect the popular conception, and the artist who had painted the

present picture was no exception. In juxtaposition to the towering

figure that strode along its banks, the Potomac was little more than a

pale trickle; houses were matchboxes, and trees, blades of grass. Stars

swirled around the gaunt gray face, and some of the stars were glowing

Komets and Golems and T-4A's re-entering the atmosphere, and some of

them were interceptors blazing spaceward. The sea showed blood-red in

the distance, and in the background, the broken columns of the fallen

Memorial were illuminated by the hellish radiance of the funeral pyre

of Washington, D.C. High above the ghastly terrain hovered the pale

globe of the Planet of Peace.

"Please sit down, Mr. Drake," Penelope said. "Annabelle's mother and

father are in the vineyard, but they will be home soon."

Drake chose one of the cushioned chairs. "Do they hate me?" he asked.

"Of course they don't hate you, Mr. Drake. And neither do I."

"I could have averted her death, you know," Drake said. "If I'd put her

down on Iago Iago as she asked me to, she would still be alive today.

But I valued my pilot's license too highly. I thought too much of my

daily bread."

Penelope had sat down in a cushioned chair that faced his own. Now she

leaned forward, her blue eyes full upon him. "There's no need for you

to justify your action to me, Mr. Drake. My husband is a Suez Canal

tech, and he can't pursue his profession without a license either. He

worked very hard to get it, and he wouldn't dream of jeopardizing it.

Neither would I."

"That would be Annabelle's brother, wouldn't it? Is he here now?"

"No. He's on Wayout, working on the 'leak'. I say 'working on it', but

actually they haven't found it yet. All they know is that it's on the

Wayout end of the warp. It's really quite a serious situation, Mr.

Drake--much more serious than the officials let on. Warp seepages are

something new, and very little is known about them, and Ralph says that

this one could very well throw the continuum into a state of imbalance

if it isn't checked in time."

Drake hadn't come all the way to _Campagne Paisible_ to talk about warp

seepages. "How well did you know your sister-in-law, Miss Leigh?" he

asked.

"I thought I knew her very well. We grew up together, went to school

together, and were the very best of friends. I _should_ have known her

very well."

"Tell me about her," Drake said.

* * * * *

"She wasn't at all an outward person, and yet everyone liked her. She

was an excellent student--excelled in everything except Ancient Lit.

She never said much, but when she did say something, you listened.

There was something about her voice...."

"I know," Drake said.

"As I said, I _should_ have known her very well, but apparently I

didn't. Apparently no one else did either. We were utterly astonished

when she ran away--especially Estevan Foursons."

"Estevan Foursons?"

"He's a Polysirian--he lives on the next farm. He and Annabelle were

to be married. And then, as I said, she ran away. None of us heard from

her for a whole year, and Estevan never heard from her at all. Leaving

him without a word wasn't at all in keeping with the way she was. She

was a kind and gentle person. I don't believe he's gotten over it to

this day, although he did get married several months ago. I think,

though, that what astonished us even more than her running away was

the news that she was studying for the sainthood. She was never in the

least religious, or, if she was, she kept it a deep dark secret."

"How old was she when she left?" Drake asked.

"Almost twenty. We had a picnic the day before. Ralph and I, she and

Estevan. If anything was troubling her, she certainly gave no sign of

it. We had a stereo-camera, and we took pictures. She asked me to take

one of her standing on a hill, and I did. It's a lovely picture--would

you like to see it?"

Without waiting for his answer, she got up and left the room. A moment

later she returned carrying a small stereo-snapshot. She handed it

to him. The hill was a high one, and Annabelle was outlined sharply

against a vivid azure backdrop. She was wearing a red dress that

barely reached her knees and which let the superb turn of her calves

and thighs come through without restraint. Her waist was narrow, and

the width of her hips was in perfect harmony with the width of her

shoulders--details which her Church of the Emancipation uniform had

suppressed. Spring sunlight had bleached her hair to a tawny yellow

and had turned her skin golden. At her feet, vineyards showed, and the

vineyards were in blossom, and it was as though she too were a part of

the forthcoming harvest, ripening under the warm sun and waiting to be

savored.

There was a knot of pain in Drake's throat. He raised his eyes to

Penelope's. Why did you have to show me this? he asked in silent

desperation. Aloud, he said, "May I have it?"

The surprise that showed upon her face tinged her voice. "Why--why yes,

I suppose so. I have the negative and can get another made.... Did you

know her very well, Mr. Drake?"

He slipped the stereo-snapshot into the inside breast-pocket of his

longcoat, where it made a dark rectangle over his heart. "No," he said.

"I did not know her at all."

* * * * *

Toward twilight, Annabelle's parents came in from the vineyard. The

mother, buxom of build and rosy of cheek, was attractive in her

own right, but she was a far cry from her daughter. In order to see

Annabelle, you had to look into the father's sensitive face. You could

glimpse her in the line of cheek and chin, and in the high, wide

forehead. You could see her vividly in the deep brown eyes. Drake

looked away.

He was invited to share the evening meal, and he accepted. However, he

knew that he would not find what he was searching for here, that if

there had been another side of Annabelle she had kept it hidden from

her family. Estevan Foursons was the logical person to whom to take

his inquiries, and after the meal, Drake thanked the Leighs for their

hospitality, said good by, and set off down the road.

Estevan Foursons lived in a house very much like the Leighs'. Vineyards

grew behind it, vineyards grew on either side of it, and across the

road, more vineyards grew. The sweet smell of grapes ripening on the

vine was almost cloying. Drake climbed the steps of the front porch,

stood in the artificial light streaming through the window in the door,

and knocked. A tall young man wearing pastel slacks and a red-plaid

peasant blouse came down the hall. He had dark-brown hair, gray eyes,

and rather full lips. Only the mahogany cast of his skin betrayed his

racial origin--that, and his unruffled calm when he opened the door

and saw Drake. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Estevan Foursons?"

The young man nodded.

"I'd like to talk to you about Annabelle Leigh," Drake went on "It was

on my ship that she--"

"I know," Estevan interrupted. "Penelope told me. Nathaniel Drake, is

it not?"

"Yes. I--"

"Why are you interested in a dead woman?"

For a moment, Drake was disconcerted. Then, "I--I feel responsible for

her death in a way."

"And you think that knowing more about her will make you feel less

responsible?"

"It might. Will you tell me about her?"

Estevan sighed. "I sometimes wonder if I really knew her myself. But

come, I will tell you what I thought I knew. We will walk down the

road--this is not for my wife's ears."

Beneath the stars, Drake said, "I talked with the saint who

indoctrinated her. He thought very highly of her."

"He could hardly have thought otherwise."

Estevan turned off the road and started walking between two starlit

rows of grapevines. Disappointed, Drake followed. Had Annabelle Leigh

never done anything wrong? It would seem that she had not.

For some time the two men walked in silence, then Estevan said, "I

wanted you to see this place. She used to come here often."

They had emerged from the vineyard and were climbing a small slope. At

the top of it, Estevan paused, and Drake paused beside him. At their

feet, the ground fell gradually away to the wooded shore of a small

lake. "She used to swim there naked in the starlight," Estevan said.

"Often I came here to watch her, but I never let on that I knew. Come."

Heartened, Drake followed the Polysirian down the slope and through

the trees to the water's edge. Drake knelt, and felt the water. It was

ice-cold. A granite outcropping caught his eye. Nature had so shaped it

that it brought to mind a stone bench, and approaching it more closely,

he saw that someone had sculptured it into an even greater semblance.

"I did that," Estevan said from behind him. "Shall we sit down?"

* * * * *

Seated, Drake said, "I find it difficult to picture her here. I suppose

that's because I associate saints with cold corridors and cramped

little rooms. There's something pagan about this place."

Estevan did not seem to hear him. "We would bring our lunch here from

the vineyards sometimes," he said. "We would sit here on this bench and

eat and talk. We were very much in love--at least everybody said we

were. Certainly, I was. Her, I don't know."

"But she must have loved you. You were going to be married, weren't

you?"

"Yes, we were going to be married." Estevan was silent for a while;

then, "But I don't think she loved me. I think she was afraid to love

me. Afraid to love anyone. Once, it hurt me even to think like this.

Now, it is all past. I am married now, and I love my wife. Annabelle

Leigh is a part of yesterday, and yesterday is gone. I can think now of

the moments we spent together, and the moments no longer bring pain. I

can think of us working together in the vineyards, tending the vines,

and I can think of her standing in the sun at harvest time, her arms

filled with blue clusters of grapes and the sunlight spilling goldenly

down upon her. I can think of the afternoon we were rained out, and of

how we ran through the rows of vines, the rain drenching us, and of

the fire we built in the basket shed so that she could dry her hair.

I can think of her leaning over the flames, her rain-dark hair slowly

lightening to bronze, and I can think of the raindrops disappearing

one by one from her glowing face. I can think of how I seized her

suddenly in my arms and kissed her, and of how she broke wildly free

and ran out into the rain, and the rain pouring down around her as she

ran.... I did not even try to catch her, because I knew it would do no

good, and I stood there by the fire, miserable and alone, till the rain

stopped, and then went home. I thought she would be angry with me the

next day, but she was not. She acted as though the rain had never been,

as though my passion had never broken free. That night, I asked her to

marry me. I could not believe it when she said yes. No, these moments

give me no more pain, and I can recount them to you with complete calm.

Annabelle, I think, was born without passion, and hence could not

understand it in others. She tried to imitate the actions of normal

people, but there is a limit to imitation, and when she discovered this

limitation she ran away."

Drake frowned in the darkness. He thought of the tape Saint Andrew had

given him, of the picture that he carried in his left breast-pocket.

Try as he would, he could correlate neither of the two Annabelles with

the new Annabelle who had stepped upon the stage. "Tell me," he said to

Estevan, "when she ran away, did you make any attempt to follow her?"

"I did not--no; but her people did. When a woman runs away because she

is afraid of love, it is futile to run after her because when you catch

up to her she will still be running." Estevan got to his feet. "I must

be getting back--my wife will be wondering where I am. I have told you

all I know."

* * * * *

He set off through the trees. Bitterly disappointed, Drake followed.

In trying to discredit the woman he wanted to hate, he had merely

succeeded in vindicating her. The new Annabelle might be inconsistent

with the other two, but she certainly was not inconsistent with

saintliness, and as for the other two, for all their seeming disparity

neither of them was inconsistent with saintliness either. It was a

long step from the girl on the hill to the girl he had locked in the

storeroom to die, but it was not an illogical step, and therefore it

could be made. Two years was more than enough time to transform the

surcharged fires of spring into the smoldering ones of fall--

Two years?

That was the length of time she had served under Saint Andrew. In

the cabin of the _Fly by Night_, however, she had given her age as

twenty-three.

The two men had reached the road. Suddenly excited, Drake turned to

Estevan. "How old was she when she left?" he asked. "Exactly how old?"

"In two more months she would have been twenty."

"And when she left, did anybody check at the spaceport? Does anybody

know positively that she went directly to Forget Me Not?"

"No. At the time it never occurred to anyone--not even the police--that

she might have left Azure."

_Then she could have gone anywhere_, Drake thought. Aloud, he said,

"Thank you for your trouble, Estevan. I'll be on my way."

* * * * *

He proceeded by anti-grav train to the spaceport at _Vin Bleu_,

only to find that the records he desired access to were unavailable

to unauthorized personnel. However, by distributing a quantity of

his fast-dwindling capital (he had drawn out the second half of his

bi-planetary nest egg on Forget Me Not), he managed to bring about a

temporary suspension of the rule. Once handed the big departure log,

he had no trouble finding the entry he wanted. It was over three years

old, and read, _9 May, 3663: Annabelle Leigh via Transspacelines to

Worldwellost, class C. Departure time: 1901 hours, GST_.

Hope throbbed through him. There were no Army of the Church of the

Emancipation missions on Worldwellost. Worldwellost was a mecca for

sinners, not saints.

In a matter of hours, Azure was a blue blur in the _Fly by Night's_

rear viewplate.

On the chart table in his cabin, Madame Gin sat. Drake regarded her

for some time. For all her refusal to help him in his time of need, he

still found her presence indispensable. Why, then, did he not go to her

at once and enrich his intellect with her fuzzy philosophies?

Presently he shrugged, and turned away. He propped the picture

Penelope had given him against the base of the chart lamp; then he

incorporated the tape Saint Andrew had given him into the automatic

pilot and programmed a continual series of playbacks over the intercom

system. He returned to the table and sat down. Ignoring Madame Gin, he

concentrated on the girl on the hill--

"I have chosen to speak to you this day of the Potomac Peregrination,

of the walking of His ghost upon the land; of the rising of His

stone figure from the ruins of the temple where it had sat in silent

meditation for three score and seventeen years, and of its coming to

life to walk down to the blood-red sea...."

* * * * *

In common with Azure, Worldwellost is one of the inner planets of the

vast Sirian system. However, it has little else in common with Azure,

and in Nathaniel Drake's day it had even less.

Before the commercial apotheosis of its lustrous neighbor, Starbright,

it had flourished as a vacation resort. Now, its once-luxurious hotels

and pleasure domes had fallen into desuetude, and the broad beaches for

which it had once been renowned were catchalls for debris, dead fish,

and decaying algae. But Worldwellost was not dead--far from it. The

rottenest of logs, once turned over, reveal life at its most intense,

and the rotten log of Worldwellost was no exception.

Nathaniel Drake put down in the spaceport-city of Heavenly and set

forth upon his iconoclastic quest. Annabelle Leigh's trail, however,

ended almost as soon as it began. She had checked into the Halcyon

Hotel one day, and checked out the next, leaving no forwarding address.

Undaunted, Drake returned to the port, distributed some more of his

fast-dwindling capital, and obtained access to the departure log.

He found the entry presently: _26 June, 3664: Annabelle Leigh via

Transspacelines to Forget Me Not, class A. Departure time: 0619 hours,

GST_.

Spacetime was synonymous with earth time and, while it was used in

calculating all important time periods, such as a person's age, it

seldom coincided with local calendars. Therefore, while the month and

the year on Worldwellost might seem to indicate otherwise, Drake knew

definitely that Annabelle Leigh had left the planet over two years ago,

or approximately one year after she had arrived.

Judging from her change in travel-status, she had bettered herself

financially during that period.

Had she spent the entire year in Heavenly? he wondered.

When all other attempts to obtain information about her failed, he

had a photostat made of the stereo-snapshot Penelope had given him,

presented it to the missing persons department of Heavenly's largest

3V station, and engaged them to flash a daily circular to the effect

that he, Nathaniel Drake, would pay the sum of fifty credits to anyone

providing him with bona fide information concerning the girl in the

picture. He then retired to his room at the Halcyon Hotel and waited

for his visiphone to chime.

His visiphone didn't, but several days later, his door did. Opening it,

he saw an old man clad in filthy rags standing in the hall. The old

man took one look at him, lost what little color he had, and turned and

began to run. Drake seized his arm. "Forget about the way I look," he

said. "One hundred of my credits makes a Rockefellow the same as anyone

else's, and I'll pay cash if you've got the information I want."

Some of the old man's color came back. "I've got it, Mister--don't you

worry about that." Reaching into the inside pocket of his filthy coat,

he withdrew what at first appeared to be a large map folded many times

over. He unfolded it with clumsy fingers, shook it out, and held it up

for Drake to see. It was a stereo-poster of a girl, life-size and in

color--the same girl who had had her picture taken on a hill on Azure--

Only this time she wasn't wearing a red dress. She was wearing a

_cache-sexe_, and except for a pair of slippers, that was all she was

wearing.

Drake could not move.

There was a legend at the bottom of the poster. It read:

_Mary Legs, now stripping at King Tutankhamen's_

* * * * *

Abruptly Drake came out of his state of shock. He tore the poster out

of the old man's hands. "Where did you get it?" he demanded.

"I stole it. Ripped it off the King's billboard when nobody was

looking. Carried it with me ever since."

"Did you ever see her ... perform?"

"You bet I did! You never saw anything like it. She'd--"

"How long ago?"

"Two-three years. Big years. She's the one you want, ain't she? I knew

it the minute I saw the picture on 3V. Sure, the name's different, I

says to myself, but it's the same girl. You should have seen her dance,

Mister. As I say, she'd--"

"Where's King Tutankhamen's place?" Drake asked.

"In Storeyville. As I say, she'd--"

"Shut up," Drake said.

He counted out fifty credits and placed them in the old man's hand. The

old man was regarding him intently. "You're the Jet-propelled Dutchman,

ain't you."

"What if I am?"

"You don't look like a Dutchman. Are you?"

"No," Drake said, and re-entered the room and slammed the door.

* * * * *

The anti-grav trains of Worldwellost were as rundown as the towns and

cities they connected. Drake rode all night and all the next morning.

He didn't sleep a wink throughout the whole trip, and when he got off

the train at the Storeyville station he looked even more like a ghost

than he had when he had got on.

His appearance provoked the usual quota of starts and stares. Ignoring

them, he made his way to the main thoroughfare. Tall and gaunt and

grim, he looked up and down the two rows of grimy façades, finally

spotted the neoned name he wanted, and started out. A knot of 'teen

thieves formed behind him as he progressed down the street. "The

Jet-propelled Dutchman," they cried jeeringly. "Look, the Jet-propelled

Dutchman!"

He turned and glowered at them, and they ran away.

The exterior of King Tutankhamen's had a rundown mien, but it retained

traces of an erstwhile elegance. Within, dimness prevailed, and Drake

practically had to feel his way to the bar. Gradually, though, as the

brightness of the afternoon street faded from his retina, he began to

make out details. Rows of glasses; rows of bottles. Obscene paintings

on the wall. A pale-faced customer or two. A bartender.

Outside in the street, the teen thieves had regrouped and had taken

up their jeering chant again. "The Jet-propelled Dutchman, the

Jet-propelled Dutchman!" The bartender came over to where Drake was

standing. He was fat, his skin was the color of nutmeg, and his hair

was white. "Your--your pleasure, sir?" he said.

Eyes more perceptive now, Drake looked at the obscene paintings,

wondering if she were the subject of any of them. She was not. He

returned his gaze to the bartender. "Are you the owner?"

"King Tutankhamen at your service, sir. I am called 'the King'."

"Tell me about Annabelle Leigh."

"Annabelle Leigh? I know of no such person."

"Then tell me about Mary Legs."

The light that came into the King's eyes had a sublimating effect upon

his face. "Mary Legs? Indeed, I can tell you about her. But tell _me_

first, have you seen her lately? Tell me, is she all right?"

"She's dead," Drake said. "I killed her."

The King's fat face flattened slightly; fires flickered in his pale

eyes. Then his face filled out again, and the fires faded away. "No,"

he said, "she may be dead, but you did not kill her. No one would kill

Mary Legs. Killing Mary Legs would be like killing the sun and the

stars and the sky, and even if a man could kill these things he would

not do so, and neither would he kill Mary Legs."

"I did not kill her on purpose," he introduced himself and told the

King about the _Fly by Night's_ encounter with the Lambda-Xi field, of

how he had locked Saint Annabelle Leigh in the starboard storeroom to

die. "If I had not been so selfish," he concluded, "she would still be

alive today."

The King looked at him pityingly. "And now your hands are bloodied, and

you must seek her ghost."

"Yes," said Drake. "Now I must seek her ghost--and destroy it."

The King shook his head. "You may seek it all you want, and you may

even find it. But you will never destroy it, Nathaniel Drake. It will

destroy you. Knowing this, I will help you find it. Come with me."

* * * * *

He spoke a few words into an intercom at his elbow, then came around

the bar and led the way down a spiral staircase into a subterranean

room. Their entry brought vein-like ceiling lights into luminescence,

and the room turned out to be a large hall. Cushioned chairs were

arranged in rows on either side of a narrow ramp that protruded from a

velvet-curtained stage, and to the right of the stage, a chromium piano

stood.

"It is fitting that I tell you about her here," King Tutankhamen said,

"for this is where she danced. Come, we will take the best seats in the

house."

Drake followed him down the aisle to the juncture of stage and ramp.

The King seated him in the chair nearest the juncture and took the

adjacent chair for himself. Leaning back, he said, "Now I will begin.

"It was over three galactic years ago when she first walked into my

establishment. The tourists had not entirely forsaken Worldwellost in

those days, and I was still enjoying prosperity. The bar was bright and

bustling, but I saw her nevertheless the minute she stepped upon the

premises. Thin, she was, and pale, and I thought at first that she was

sick. When she sat down at the table by the door, I went immediately

over to her side.

"'Wine, would you like?' I asked, knowing as I do the revivifying

qualities of the grape. But she shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'I want

work.' 'But what can you do?' I asked. 'I can take off my clothes,' she

replied. 'Is there something else I need to know?' Looking at her more

closely, I saw that indeed there was nothing else she needed to know;

nevertheless, there is an art of sorts to bumps and grinds, and this

I told her. 'You have other girls who can show me the rudiments,' she

said. 'After that, it will be up to me.' 'What is your name?' I asked

then. 'Mary Legs,' she answered. 'It is not my real name, however, and

you will have to pay me in cash.' I took one more look at her, and

hired her on the spot.

"It developed that she had no aptitude for bumps and grinds. It also

developed that she did not need to have. The first time she danced,

only a dozen men sat here in this room and watched her. The second time

she danced, two dozen sat here. The next time she danced, the room was

packed, the bar was overflowing, and there was a line of men waiting in

the street. Some girls dance simply by walking. She was one of them.

She had what is called 'poetry of motion', but I think it was her legs,

really, that most men came to see. I will let you judge for yourself.

Incidentally, the piano which you will hear accompanying her was played

by me."

King Tutankhamen leaned forward, slid aside a small panel just beneath

the edge of the proscenium, and depressed several luminescent buttons.

Instantly the lights went out, and the velvet curtains parted. A

stereo-screen leaped into bright life, and a moment later, Mary Legs,

nee Annabelle Leigh, appeared upon it. So flawless was the illusion

that it was as though she had stepped upon the stage.

Perfume reminiscent of the vineyards of Azure infiltrated the room.

Drake found breathing difficult.

She was wearing a standard stripper's outfit that could be removed

piece by piece. Hardly had she "appeared" upon the stage when the first

piece fluttered forth and disappeared. Three more followed in swift

succession. A fifth went just as she stepped, seemingly, out upon the

ramp.

"She was always that way," the King whispered. "I told her that she

should be coy, that she should tease, but she paid no attention. It was

as though she couldn't get her clothes off fast enough."

Drake barely heard him.

* * * * *

Mary Legs was moving down the ramp now, and now another garment drifted

forth and winked out of sight. He saw her breasts. Chords sounded in

the background. A progression of ninths and elevenths. Her face was

glowing; her eyes were slightly turned up. Glazed.

Drake watched the final garment disappear into the mists of time. She

was down to sandals and _cache-sexe_ now. Her slow walk down the ramp

continued.

There was poetry in the play of light upon her flesh, there was poetry

in her every motion. The flabby pectorals of beauty queens, she

knew not. Here was firmness; depth. Her hair burned with the yellow

fires of fall. An arpeggio like the tinkling of glass chimes leaped

up and formed a brief invisible halo over her head. At the base of

the ramp she went through a series of contemptuous bumps and grinds,

then returned casually the way she had come. Now there was a subtle

difference in her walk. Sweat broke out on Drake's face. His breath

burned in his throat. Eyes turned up, she saw no one, then or now; knew

no one, knew nothing but the moment. Her body writhed obscenely. Notes

fell around her like cool rain. Suddenly Drake realized that she had

not been flaunting her sex to the audience, but to the worlds.

She began a second series of bumps and grinds. While it lacked finesse,

it was obscene beyond belief, and yet, in another sense, it was somehow

not obscene at all. There was something tantalizingly familiar about

it, so tantalizingly familiar that he could have sworn that he had seen

her dance before. And yet he knew perfectly well that he had not.

His mind ceased functioning, and he sat there helplessly, a prisoner of

the moment. Presently she began a series of movements, a dance of sorts

that had in it the essence of every orgy known to mankind, and yet

simultaneously possessed a quality that had nothing whatsoever to do

with orgies, a quality that was somehow transcendent ... and austere.

She paused transiently just above him, and her legs were graceful

pillars supporting the splendid temple of her body and her head was the

rising sun, then she stepped back into the screen, the lights went on,

and the curtain closed.

_I am a wall, and my breasts like the towers thereof:

Then was I in his eyes as one that found peace._

* * * * *

It was some time before either man spoke. Then Drake said, "I'd like to

buy it."

"The realitape? Why--so you can destroy it?"

"No. How much do you want?"

"You must understand," said the King, "that it is very precious to me,

that--"

"I know," Drake said. "How much?"

"Six hundred Rockefellows."

The amount came perilously close to the figure to which Drake's

capital had dwindled. Nevertheless, he did not haggle, but counted

the hundred-credit notes out. The King removed the realitape from the

proscenium projector, and the exchange was made. "You are getting a

bargain, Mr. Drake," the King said. "For a collector's item like that,

I could get twice six hundred Rockefellows."

"When did she leave here?" Drake asked.

"About a year after she arrived. A big year. I went to her room after

one of her dances and found her gone. Her clothes, everything.... For

all her willingness to exhibit herself, she was never really one of

us. She would never permit any of us to get close to her in any sense

of the word. There was something tragic about her. She said once that

she could not bear children, but I do not think that this had very

much to do with her unhappiness. She _was_ unhappy, you know, although

she was very careful never to let on." The King raised his eyes, and

Drake was dumfounded to see tears in them. "You have told me that

after she left Worldwellost she became a saint. Somehow this does not

surprise me. There is an exceedingly thin line between good and evil.

Most of us manage to walk this line with a greater or lesser degree of

equilibrium, but I think Mary Legs could not walk it at all: with her,

I think it had to be one side or the other. Evil, she found intolerable

after a while, and she ran away, crossing the line to good. But good,

she eventually found intolerable too, and she ran away again. She

told you that she wished to be put down on Iago Iago to witness a

resurrection. This, I do not believe. Real or not, the resurrection was

an excuse for her. I believe that she was searching for a way of life

that would combine the two extremes of good and evil and that she hoped

to find it among the primitive Polysirians. And I think that she also

hoped to find a man who would understand her and accept her for what

she was. Do you think I may be right, Nathaniel Drake?"

"I don't know," Drake said. Abruptly he stood up. "I'll be on my way

now."

King Tutankhamen touched his arm. "The question which I am about to ask

is an exceedingly delicate one, Nathaniel Drake. I hope you will not

take offense?"