He won't turn around. “I'm a Catman. I can't do that. I'm bound.”

“If you don't, I’ll see that someone else does.”

“I'm beginning not to care.”

“Have it your way.”

“Your way.”

“My way then. But my way whichever way.”

He vanishes into the main room and a moment later she hears the dropshaft hiss. She sits at the table staring into the mid-distance, remembering. Her face softens and flows and lines of weariness superimpose themselves over her one hundred and sixty-five year old youthful face. She drops her face into her hand, runs the fingers up through her thick coppery hair, the metal fingernails making tiny clicking noises against the fibers and follicles. She makes a sound deep in her throat. Then she stiffens her back and rises. She stands there for several moments, listening to the past; she shrugs the robe from her slim, pale body and follows her husband's path to the dropshaft.

The dining salon is empty. From the main room comes the hiss of the dropshaft. Menials purr from the walls and clean up the dining area. Below, punishment and coercion reduce philosophies to diamond dust and suet.

Seven miles away, the thief reappears in his cool apartments. The sights and sounds of what he has overheard and seen between his parents, hidden in the main room till his father left his mother, tremble in his mind. He finds himself rubbing the palm of his left hand up the wall, rubbing over and over without control; his hand hurts from the friction but he doesn't stop.

He rubs and rubs till his palm is bloody. Then he vanishes, illegally.

Sub-level one:eleven-Central was converted to ocean. Skipboats sliced across from Oakwood on the eastern shore to Caliban on the western cliffs. In the coves and underwater caves sportsmen hunted loknesses, bringing home trophies that covered large walls. Music was bubblecast across the water. Plankton beaneries bobbed like buoys near the tourist shores. Full Fathom Five had gotten four stars in The Epicure and dropshafts carried diners to the bottom to dine in elegance while watching the electro stims put on their regularly scheduled shows among the kelp beds. Neil Leipzig emerged into the pulsing ochre throat of the reception area, and was greeted by the maitre d'.

“Good evening, Max. Would Lady Effim and her party be here yet?”

The maître d' smiled and his neck-slits opened and closed

to reveal a pink moistness. “Not yet, Mr. Leipzig. Would you care to wait at the bar? Or one of the rooms?”

“I'll be at the bar. Would you let them know I'm here when they arrive?”

The thief let the undulant carry him into the bar and he slid into a seat beside the great curved pressure window. The kelp beds were alive with light and motion.

“Sir?”

The thief turned from watching the light-play. A domo hovered at the edge of the starburst-shaped table. “Oh. A chinchin, please, a little heavier on the Cinzano.” The domo hummed a thankyou and swirled away. Neil Leipzig turned back to the phantasmagoria beyond the pressure window. A bubble of music struck the window and burst just beyond the thief's nose. He knew the tune.

“Neil.”

The thief saw her reflection, dimly, in the window. He did not turn around for a moment, gathering his feelings. “Joice,” he said, finally. “Nice to see you again.”

“Then why don't you turn around so you can.”

He let the seat turn him toward her.

She was still remarkable. He wanted to see dust marks on her loveliness, product of treachery and floating ethics, but he knew she had not really been treacherous, and if there had been an ethical failure, it had been his.

“May I sit?”

“I'm going to be joining a party in a few minutes, but please…” He waved her to the seat beside him. She settled into it, crossing her legs. The chiton opened and revealed smooth thigh vanishing up into ivory fabric. “How have you been?”

“I've been excellent, Neil. Breve sends his best.”

“That was unnecessary.”

“I'm trying to be reasonable, Neil. It's been a long time and I'm uncomfortable with it this way between us.”

“Be comfortable. I've got it all straight.”

“I'm trying to be friendly.”

“Just be reasonable, that'll be enough.”

The domo came bobbing through the room and hovered beside the table. It set the chin-chin down. The thief sipped and nodded acceptance. “Lady?” the domo hummed.

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

The domo shot straight up and went away just below ceiling height

“Are you still doing dust?” she asked.

He stiffened and his eyes came to her face with anger as he stopped watching the domo. “Your manners haven't improved any with time.”

She started to say I'm sorry. But his anger continued to sheet: “If we run out on that topic, we can always discuss Breve's throat!”

“Oh, God, Neil, that's unfair…unfair and lousy!”

“I understand from one of the twinkle boys that Breve's using some new steroid vexing agent and a stim-sensitive synthetic that lets him vibrate it like mad. Must be terrific for you…when he's not with twinkles.”

Joice pressed a fingertip against the room-call plate set into the surface of the starburst-shaped table. Near the reception area Max heard the tone on his console, noted it was Neil Leipzig's table, punched up an empty, and made a mental note to let Lady Effim know the thief was in a room, when she and her party arrived. At the starburst-shaped table, the number 22 pulsed in the translucent face of the room-call plate.

“All right, Neil. Enough already. Overkill doesn't become you.”

She stood up.

“And mealy-mouth attempts at bonhomie don't become you.”

He stood up.

“It's simply I see no reason why we have to be on the outs. There are still some good memories.”

Side by side, they walked across the enormous dining room of the Full Fathom Five, toward the curving wall of glass-fronted private rooms.

“Look, Joice: I don't want to talk about it. You stopped to talk to me, remember? I didn't force myself on you.”

“Just now, or three years ago?”

He couldn't help laughing. “Point for you,” he said, opening the door to the private room. The magnifying glass of the room's front wall curved the diners beyond into a mere smear of moving color. From outside, the tableau in the room was cast large for anyone to watch.

“I'm sorry I said that about the dust,” Joice said, slipping the soft fabric of the chiton off her shoulders. It floated to the floor like fog.

“I'm not sorry about my comments where Breve is concerned,” Neil replied. Naked, he moved his shoulder blades in a loosening movement, realizing the scene with his parents had made him unbelievably tense. He slid into the free-fall cumulus fizz and lay on his back.

“Gardyloo!” she said, and dove into the mist beside him. Her long auburn hair floated wildly around her head.

“What the hell's all this in aid of, Joice?” the thief said. She rolled him under her, sitting astride his thighs, positioning herself above his erect penis.

“Peaceful coexistence,” she said, and settled down slowly till he was deep up inside her.

“Has he med for you?”

“No.”

“Does he intend to?”

“I have no idea.”

“You've gotten more laissez-faire since we were a pair. I can't recall a week when you weren't badgering me to file.”

“I loved you.”

“And you don't love Breve. “

She moved her hips in a circular pattern. He contracted and expanded his penis in a steady pulse. She leaned back and rested her hands on his upper thighs, sliding up and down smoothly.

“I didn't say I don't love Breve. He just hasn't filed and it isn't a problem at the moment.”

“Why don't you file for him?”

“Don't be cruel; you know Breve isn't in the Pool.”