As she was seated, the mass of threads fell away from her graceful legs. Now she stood up; the threads fell back into a solid curtain. "See, Jake? A plain gold skirt. But when I move"—she walked—"the blue underneath keeps flashing through."

"Yes, and you, too. Panties?"

"A rude question. The Polynesians never heard of pants until the missionaries corrupted them."

"That's not a responsive answer—"

"Wasn't meant to be."

"—but as long as you are standing, let's get rolling."

"Yes, dear." Joan Eunice put on a matching opaque yashmak, let Jake lay an evening cloak around her shoulders. Jake hooked on a maroon domino which covered his distinctive aquiline nose—he had been too often on video lately and felt that there was no point on concealing Miss J. S. B. Smith's face if his own face broke her cover. The Doctor donned a small white dom­ino—having been asked to help keep the party in character—and Winifred wore a filmy green harem veil that was only a symbol, being of the same material as her skirt.

As they entered the lift Joan Eunice said, "Where are we going, Jake?"

"Woman, you aren't supposed to ask. The Gaslight Club, as a starter."

"It sounds like fun," Joan agreed. "A piano player with sleeve garters and such?"

"And derby hat and fake cigar—he can sing and play anything written a hundred years back. Or fake it."

"I want to hear him. But, Jake, since this is to celebrate my uhuru, would you indulge me a little?"

"Probably. Show your openers."

"There's a club I've heard about...and while you were napping, I reserved a table for four for twenty-two thirty.

I'd like to try it."

"Winnie, you haven't been coaching her enough. Eunice, you're not supposed to be capable of making such a decision—less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels and all that. All right, where is this dive? What's its name? We'll try the Gaslight later—there is a waitress there alleged to have the most pinchable bottom in the state."

"Probably foam rubber; Winnie has that distinction. It's the Pompeii-Now, Jake—I have the address in my purse."

Mr. Salomon's eyebrows appeared over his domino.

"We won't need it, Eunice. That box is in an Abandoned Area."

"Does that matter? They have inside parking and assured me that they are armored against anything short of a nuke bomb."

"We would still have to get there and back."

"Oh, I have confidence in Finchley and Shorty. Don't you?" (Twin, that's a crotch chop. Not nice.) (Big sister, do you want to go to the Gaslight and listen to bad piano and watch Jake pinch bottoms? If so, say so.) (I just said it wasn't nice.) (So you phrase the next answer. Jake's a tough case.)

"Joan Eunice, when I take a lady out for the evening, we go in my car. Not hers."

"Whatever you say, Jake; I was trying to be helpful. I asked Finchley and he said there was a route in that the—what do they call it?—the Organization—keeps open. No doubt Finchley can tell Rockford."

"I call it the, Mafia. If there is an acceptably safe route, Rockford knows it; he's the most expert driver in town—more experienced than your boys, he drives more."

"Jake, you don't want to go there. So let's go to the Gaslight. I want to try sticking a pin in that rubber fanny."

They went to the Pompeii-Now.

There was no trouble getting inside and the club had a card lounge for its patrons' mobile guards. The maitre d'hôtel led them to a ringside table across from the orchestra, swept a "Reserved" sign from it. "Will this be suitable, Mr. ‘Jones'?"

"Yes, thank you," agreed Salomon. Two silver-bucket stands with champagne appeared as they sat down; the maître d'hôtel took a magnum from the sommelier and displayed it to Salomon, who said, "That's a poor year for Pol Roger. No Dom Perignon ninety-five?"

"At once, sir." The sommelier hurried away. The maître d'hôtel asked, "Is there anything else not to your liking, sir?"

Joan Eunice leaned toward Jake. "Please tell him that I don't like this chair. It was designed by Torquemada."

The floor manager looked upset. "I'm sorry Madame feels that way about our chairs. They were supplied by the number-one hotel and restaurant supply company."

"As may be," Joan answered, "but if you think I'm going to spend an evening perched on a shooting stick and pretend that it's fun, you are mistaken. Jake, we should have gone to the Gaslight."

"Perhaps, but we're here now. Just a moment, dear. Maître d'hôtel—"

"Yes, sir."

"You have an office here, no doubt."

"Why, yes, sir."

"With a desk and a chair. Probably a padded swivel chair with arms and an adjustable back. A man who is on his feet as much as you are wants a comfortable chair when he does sit down."

"I do have such a chair, sir, and—while it's hardly suitable for a dining room—Madame is welcome to it if it pleases her. I'll send for it."

"One moment. In a club with so many activities—you have a gaming room, do you not, and other things?—I feel sure that it is possible to round up four such chairs."

"Uh, I'll try, sir. Although our other patrons might find it odd if we supply one table with special chairs."

Mr. Salomon looked around. The place was less than half filled. "Oh, I imagine that if you explained to anyone who asked just how expensive such special service is, he might not want it. Or you might find it possible to accommodate him, too, if he is willing to pay. I think those guards pretending to be waiters standing around the edge of the room can handle anyone who is unreasonable."

"All our staff are guards, sir—in a crunch. Very well, sir, if you will be patient a few moments your party will all have desk chairs." Quickly he distributed wine cards and drug lists, and left.

Roberto and Winifred were already dancing. Joan leaned toward Jake again and said, "Jake, will you buy this place for me?"

"Does it attract you that much?"

"No, I want to make a bonfire out of these chairs. I had forgotten what indignities nightclubs expect their customers to put up with."

"You're spoiled."

"I intend to be. Jake, much of what is wrong with this world would be righted if the customer screamed every time he feels cheated. But I'm not out to reform the world tonight; I simply want a comfortable chair. The cover charge—I checked it when I made reservations for ‘Mr. Jones'—is high enough to buy a decent chair. What are these other activities'? A whorehouse upstairs, maybe?"

"Eunice, see those three tables of beautiful people over in the corner? Attractive men and women, all young, all smiles, no frowns, and each with a champagne glass that may hold ginger ale? It's high odds that, if the Greeks had a word for it, they have a price for it."

"Why, one of those girls doesn't look more than twelve."

"She may not be that old. Who's going to check on her age, in an Abandoned Area? I thought you weren't going to reform the world tonight, my dear?"

"I'm not. If the government can't police these areas, I certainly cannot. But I hate to see children exploited." (Twin, that pretty child may have an I.Q. of eighty and no other possible profession—she may think she's lucky. Proud of her job. And seeing where she is, she's either got an implant or cut tubes—not like that cheerleader I told you about.) (Eunice, doesn't it bother you?) (Some, chum, but only some. People usually are what they are because it suits them—I learned that from Joe. The girl's mother may be one of the other pretties there—two gets you seven. Want to rescue them both?) (Oh, shut up, darling; let's have fun.) (I'm willing.)

A waitress came past, refilled their glasses. She was pretty and was dressed in sandals, cosmetics, and careful depilation. She smiled and moved on. "Jake, is she one?"

"Couldn't say, I don't know the house rules. Shocked, Eunice? I told you not to come here."