"Oh, God, that's depressing. And I thought I was actually making progress with it." She batted his hand away from her wrist. "You're terrible. Love you anyway." Then, "I didn't notice tourists doing that sort of thing last time."

"Oh, they were. You just didn't notice because you were too busy turning that alley-cat glare on everything and everyone who stood in your way-even those poor, abused books you used to read and fling across Kit's apartment whenever you got frustrated. Or attempting to toss Sven on his backside, if it killed you."

Margo went beet-red again. "Didn't know Kit'd told you about the books," she mumbled, noticeably not apologetic about trying to mop up the gym with the instructor who'd given her multiple bruises every single night.

His eyes softened. "Hey, Margo. It's okay. We all got out in time and you're doing wonderfully well, now that you're into your studies so deeply."

Margo just nodded, afraid to try her voice.

Ianira, who had taken in the entire exchange silently, began to chuckle. "You will do well, the pair of you." Two heads whipped around guiltily. Ianira laughed aloud. "Oh, yes. Fire of Youth and Caution of Experience, with streaks of childlike play and frightened love in you both. Yes," she smiled, "you will do well together." Before either of them could speak, Ianira stretched slightly. "Oh, what a relief to get away from those hounds." She pointed silently with her glance toward the window where her acolytes stood with despairing expressions, then said something low in ancient Greek, something that sounded holy and apologetic.

When she'd finished, and Margo was sure she'd finished, she asked curiously, "Don't they drive you crazy? Do they follow you around like that all the time?"

"Very nearly, and yes." Expressive eyes went suddenly tired. "It does get a bit wearing at times. Still, a few of them are actually teachable. I am told, for I will never be allowed uptime, that I have sparked an entire revival of Artemis worship. You heard those women. Simply by being here and occasionally speaking directly to a few of them," again, she nodded very slightly to the window, "I have accidentally begun something that even I do not know where the ending will lie."

"Yeah, you have. Believe me, have you ever. There are no less than three Artemis temples just on campus, because response was so high they had to build another and then a third one to hold all the students attending the ceremonies. How many are in town, I don't think anyone knows."

Ianira pondered that in silence--and judging by her eyes, sorrow.

"Hey, Ianira, don't feel so terrible. I mean everything we do or don't do, say or don't say has an impact on something or someone else. And none of us know even half, never mind most of the endings. I mean, look at the Church of Elvis The Everlasting."

"El-vis?" Ianira asked uncertainly. "I do not know this god."

Margo giggled. A genuinely delighted, little-girl giggle. "Yeah. Elvis Presley, singing star. Here's an aging rock'n' roll legend found dead on the toilet, for God's sake, with a whole bunch of chemicals in his blood. That was back in 1976. Wasn't too long before folks started writing songs about him, or claiming they'd seen The Everlasting Elvis at some grocery store or in their living rooms, or maybe hitchhiking some interstate and a trucker lets him in, talks to him for a while, then he'd say something like, 'Gotta go, now friend. Good talkin' to you. See you at Graceland some day.' Then he just vanishes."

Ianira was laughing so hard, there were tears in her eyes. "Please, Margo, what is a `rock 'n' roll' singer? Why was this El-vis so popular?"

Surprising them both speechless, Malcolm shoved back his chair, ran impromptu fingers through his hair so it looked more or less appropriate, then in an astonishingly good imitation of Elvis' voice, sang a stirring, bloodpounding rendition of "Heartbreak Hotel." Complete with world-famous hip thrusts. He grabbed up the vase from their table and sang into the pink carnation as though it were a microphone and crooned the chorus to applause, whistles, and feminine shrieks. Then with a single movement, he whipped the dripping carnation and tossed it straight at Margo. She let out a sound somewhere between scream and fainting ecstasy while the transformed Malcolm bowed to the thunderous applause all through the Delight. He bowed to every corner in turn, saying, "I wanna thank you for comin' and sharin' my show. I love you all, baby. Gotta go, now. My 'nanner sandwich is waitin'."

He sat down to another thunderous round of applause, shrieks for "MORE!" and an entire hailstorm of carnations. All three ducked, finding themselves covered in no time with dripping wet flowers.

"See," Malcolm grinned, coming up for air-with a red carnation stuck sideways in his hair-"no sequined suit, no fancy guitar in fact, no guitar at all, and I'm not nearly as good an imitator as lots of guys are. But you saw the response from the people in here." They were still brushing off carnations. Malcolm signaled for a waiter. "They went completely nuts. That's the definition of the ultimate rock 'n' roll star: being so good at what they do, their audiences go crazy. Happened with the Beatles, too; but they called Elvis `The King of Rock' long before he died and got himself apotheosized."

Margo took up the rest of the explanation as best she could. "Pretty soon, there was a single `Church of Elvis the Everlasting.' The main temple was-is-his estate at Graceland, Elvis' mansion near Nashville, Tennessee. Trouble was, while lots of folks made the pilgrimage, lots more couldn't afford it. So before you know what's happening, there are thousands of Churches of Elvis the Everlasting, all over the country.

And all of 'em mail their cash tithes overnight express to the High Temple at Graceland."

Margo grinned. "Man, you should see that place! There was a documentary on it one Friday night a few weeks back, and since I didn't have much to do, I watched it." She rolled her eyes. "A real king would be jealous. There's an altarpiece, must be twenty-four feet of black velvet, with another piece coming down the pulpit to the floor. Believers who can sew are still working, on it. The Everlasting Elvis on the pulpit is finished in gold and silver threads, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, you name it, they used it to decorate that drop of cloth.

"And no cheap, synthetic velvet, either, but the real stuff that would cost me, let's see, at least seven weeks of saving up every bit of my allowance, just to buy a piece of real velvet as big as the altar piece, never mind the twenty-four-foot runner. That is supposed to illustrate the entire life of the Everlasting Elvis."

Margo giggled. "I can't help wondering if they're going to show him ascending as the Elvis Everlasting, rising into grace from that toilet seat he died on? Oh, that whole place is crazy. The whole fad is crazy. Worshipping a dead rock 'n' roll singer? Puh-leeze."

Ianira was still wiping tears of hilarity from the corners of her eyes. "Your whole uptime world, I think, is just as crazy as worshipping a dead man. You have a gift, Margo, for telling a story." Ianira's smile was brilliant. "You could go into training, fire-haired one. So few see so clearly at your age."

Margo flounced in place. "Humph. It ain't the age, it's the mileage," she muttered, paying tribute to one of her favorite last-century classics.

"You see what I mean?" Ianira said softly. "You just did it again. You should get training before you go scouting on your own. You may well have need of it someday."

Margo couldn't say anything. Once again, Malcolm came to her rescue. He passed menus around and said lightly, "Ianira, who has accumulated quite a bit of `mileage' for her age, has become something of a celebrity uptime, as you mentioned with all those temples on your campus. Right after The Accident, there was a group of kooks, I forget what they called themselves-"