"Rampant bitch," he breathed. He looked at the ceiling.

He lifted the bedside telephone. "Yeah; can I speak to… Treyvo? Yes please." He waited, dug between two molars with a fingernail. "Yeah; night-clerk Treyvo? My very good friend… listen; I'd like a little company, you know? Indeed… well, there's a largish tip if… that's right… and, Treyvo; if she comes with a Press pass secreted anywhere, you're a dead man."

The suit was vulnerable to a shortish list of comparatively heavy battlefield weaponry, and not much else. He watched the capsule vibrate its way back under the surface of the desert as the suit clasped itself around him. He got back into the car and drove back down to the hotel, just in time to meet the limousine sent by his hosts for that evening.

The cluster's media had been cleared from the hotel courtyard that afternoon, on his instructions, so there was no undignified dive through their lights and mikes and questions. He stood, dark glasses in place, on the steps of the hotel as the great dark car — significantly more impressive than the one he'd almost been killed in that morning, he was somewhat disappointed to note — drew smoothly to a halt. A huge man, grey haired, with a pale, heavily scarred face, unfolded himself from the driver's compartment and held open a rear door, bowing slowly.

"Thank you," he said to the big man as he stepped into the vehicle. The fellow bowed again, and closed the door. He sat back in plushly luxurious upholstery that couldn't make up its mind whether it was a seat or a bed. The car's windows dimmed in response to the lights of the media people as the vehicle exited from the hotel courtyard. He gave what he hoped was a regal wave, all the same.

The evening city lights streamed past; the car thundered quietly. He inspected a package on the seat/bed beside him; it was paper-wrapped, and tied up with colourful ribbons. "MR STABERINDE" said a hand-written note. He brought the suit helmet over, pulled carefully on a ribbon, opening the package. There were clothes inside. He lifted them out and looked at them.

He found a switch on an arm that let him talk to the grey-haired driver. "I take it this is my fancy-dress costume. What is it exactly?"

The driver looked down, took something from a jacket pocket, and manipulated it. "Hello," said an artificial voice. "My name is Mollen. I cannot talk, so I use this machine instead." He glanced up at the road, then down again at whatever machine he was using. "What do you want to ask me?"

He didn't like the way the big guy took his eyes off the road each time he wanted to say something, so he just said, "never mind." He sat back and watched the lights go past, taking the suit helmet off again.

They drew into the courtyard of a large, dark house down near a river in a side-canyon. "Please follow me, Mr Staberinde," Mollen said through his machine.

"Certainly." He lifted the suit helmet and followed the taller man up the steps and into a large foyer. He was carrying the costume he'd found in the car. Animal heads glared from the walls of the tall entrance hall. Mollen closed the doors and led him to an elevator which hummed and rattled its way down for a couple of floors; he heard the noise and could detect the drug-smoke odour of the party even before the doors were opened.

He handed the bundle of clothes to Mollen, keeping only a thin cloak. "Thanks; I won't be needing the rest."

They went out into the party, which was noisy and crowded and full of bizarre costumes. The men and women all looked sleek and well-fed; he breathed in the drug smoke that wreathed the motley figures about him; Mollen led the way through the crowd. People fell silent as they passed, and a babble of conversation started up in his wake. He heard the word «Staberinde» several times.

They went through doors guarded by men even bigger than Mollen, down a flight of softly carpeted stairs, and into a large room walled with glass on one side. Boats bobbed on black water in an underground dock on the far side of the glass, which reflected a smaller but more bizarre party. He peeked under the dark glasses, but the view was no brighter.

As on the floor above, people walked around with either drug bowls or, for the especially daring, drink glasses. Everybody was either badly injured or actually mutilated.

Men and women turned to look at the new arrival as he followed Mollen in. Some men and women had arms broken and twisted, the bones tearing through the skin, showing whitely under the plain light; some had huge gashes cut into their bodies, some had whole areas of their flesh flayed and seared, some had had breasts or arms amputated, or eyes put out, often with the removed article or articles dangling from other parts of their bodies. The woman from the street party came towards him, a hand-wide flap of her belly hanging down over her glistening skirt, her belly muscles rippling inside like dull red glistening chords.

"Mr Staberinde; you've come as a space man," she said. There was an over-elaborate modulation to her voice he found instantly annoying.

"Well, I've sort of compromised," he said, swirling the cape and fastening it across his shoulders.

The woman held out her hand. "Well; welcome, anyway."

"Thank you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. He half expected the suit sensory fields to pick up a whiff of some deadly poison on the woman's delicate hand, and signal danger, but the alarm remained quiet. He grinned as she took her hand away.

"What do you find funny, Mr Staberinde?"

"This!" he laughed, nodding at the people around them.

"Good," she said, laughing a little (her belly quivered). "We did hope our party might amuse you. Allow me to introduce our good friend who is making all this possible."

She took his arm and guided him through the grisly multitude to a man sitting on a stool next to a tall, dull grey machine. He was small and smiling and kept wiping his nose with a large kerchief which he stuffed raggedly into his otherwise immaculate suit.

"Doctor, this is the man we told you of, Mr Staberinde."

"Sincere greetings and things," said the little doctor, his face collapsing into a moist and toothy smile. "Welcome to our Injured Party." He waved round the room at the wounded people, and waved his hands enthusiastically. "Would you like an injury? The process is quite painless, and causes no inconvenience; repairs are speedy and there aren't any scars. What can I tempt you with? Lacerations? Compound fracture? Castration? How about a multiple trepanning? You'd be the only one here."

He folded his arms and laughed. "You're too kind. Thank you, but no."

"Oh don't, please," the little man said, looking wounded. "Don't spoil the party; everybody else is taking part; do you really want to feel so left out? There is no risk of pain or permanent damage of any sort. I have carried out this sort of operation all over the civilised universe, and have never had any complaints except from people who get too attached to their injuries and resist repair. My machine and I have performed novelty injuries and wounds in every centre of civilisation in the Cluster; you may not have this chance again, you know; we leave tomorrow, and I'm all booked up for the next two years standard. Are you absolutely sure you don't want to participate?"

"More than absolutely."

"Leave Mr Staberinde alone, Doctor," the woman said, "If he does not want to join us then we must respect his wishes. Must we not, Mr Staberinde?" The woman took his arm in hers. He looked at her injury, wondering what sort of transparent shielding kept everything intact. Her breasts were frosted with small, tear-shaped gems, and kept high by tiny field projectors on their undersides.

"Yes, of course."