Clarion

CLARION

11

Hanes. Hanes was a small, intense-looking man who seldom smiled. Like Paul, he had served in the Guard. But while Paul had been punching computer keys and checking supply orders for clerical accuracy, Hanes had been chasing Fringe outlaws in a Guard patrol ship. Four years ago he had gotten his belly full of that, and Paul had hired him to take charge of Dorland Avery's private security team. He took his job seriously, but in Paul's opinion he had a tendency to overreact to anything he thought to be even slightly out of the ordinary.

"We get threatening calls all the time," Paul said.

"There're a lot of nuts out there. So far they haven't had the guts to follow through."

Hanes kept silent, but Paul knew he wasn't

convinced. The message that had come through the hotel switchboard three hours before the show was brief and to the point: if Dorland Avery performed at the hotel's main auditorium tonight, he would be killed. Period. No reason was given, and no conditions—and of course the caller had not identified himself. Dorland knew about the call, but that hadn't stopped him from going on with the show. Even Paul was beginning to take such threats almost casually. They came with the job for wellknown entertainers, especially psi-players. Paul lifted the goggles again to look at the man in the balcony. "Anyway, he's too far from the stage to do anything."

"Not if he planted something earlier," Hanes pointed out. "An explosive, or a gas canister. He could have put it on the stage and set it to go off from a remote trigger." Hanes reached for the communicator on his belt, flipped it open and issued a few brief orders to the men he had stationed in the balcony. Then he turned to look down at the stage. "He's almost done, isn't he?" Paul swiveled back around. The brilliant colors had given way to subdued violets and blues as the 12_________________William Greenleaf

intensity of the music diminished. The two technicians who occupied the other chairs in the control booth were busy at their consoles, but Doriand had direct control over the music and most of the stage lights from micropads that were strapped to his hands.

Now Dorland's face was tilted upward, pale and calm. The medallion on his forehead reflected glittering fragments of light. Paul stared for a moment, wondering what was going on inside

Dorland's head. The player's trance was deep, there was no doubt of that—

"Well?" said Hanes.

Paul blinked and cleared his throat. "He'll wrap it up in ten minutes or so."

Hanes was silent a moment, then: "If anything's going to happen, it'll be at the end." Paul pulled his eyes away from Doriand.

"What?"

"That's when all the lights go out but the big white spot from the ceiling."

Then Paul understood, and he had to admit it made sense. Doriand always closed his show the same way. The big speakers would be roaring with that peculiar hum Doriand called the mood relaxer, and the auditorium would be dark except for the single brilliant light on the stage. Doriand would make a perfect target with his arms stretched out and his feet apart in the stance that always made Paul think uncomfortably of a crucifixion. In the darkness a man would probably be able to slip away without trouble; after one of Dorland's shows, most people in the audience felt drained, without the motivation to do more than hug the person they had come with or sit quietly and consider the deeper meaning of life.

"I'm going up to the balcony," Hanes said abruptly. He left his seat, stepped through the doorway onto the platform and climbed quickly up