Clarion

CLARION 15

him from the back and at the same time grabbed for the wrist that held the gun, trying desperately to deflect it. He caught a brief glimpse of a narrow face and cold blue eyes before the gun's muzzle winked, and Paul heard the snap of superheated air beside his ear. The men grappled, then fell across the railing and out into the aisle. Paul's knee smashed into one of the rail supports, and a monstrous bolt of pain rammed up his leg. The thin man twisted free with surprising strength and jerked around, bringing the gun up. Paul had time to stare at the dark muzzle an instant before he heard a crack! from behind him. The man grunted once and rolled over onto his face and lay still. Paul fell back onto his elbows and drew in whacking breaths. Steph Hendrikson leaned over him with his gun still smelling faintly of hot metal.

"Are you okay, Mr. Jurick?"

Paul couldn't find the breath to answer.

Hendrikson helped him to his feet. A sudden murmur broke out around them as people began to react to what had happened. Paul turned to look up at the stage. Dorland stood motionless, arms at his sides. A violet hue still hung around him, drifting in faint, smoky wisps. His eyes were dark, half lidded, still full of the player's trance. The medallion on his forehead gleamed with purple light.

"Get him out of here," Paul rasped. Hendrikson hesitated, looking down at the man who still lay motionless at their feet. Then Jeffrey Hanes and two of his men arrived, and Hanes took charge with a few barked orders. Two of the men went up the steps and hustled Dorland behind the curtain to the dressing room.

"You all right?" Hanes asked.

Paul nodded and looked down at the man in the aisle. "Is he . . ." The words trailed off as the odor of scorched flesh reached his nostrils. He felt something turn over in his stomach.

\6_________________William Greenleaf

Hanes took Paul's arm and pulled him away from the body. "Go back with Dorland. I'll take care of things out here."

Paul didn't argue. His knee was beginning to cry for attention by the time he had gone around the side of the stage and down the short passageway that led to the dressing room. Fastened to the door was a metal plate with simple black lettering: DORLAND AVERY.

Steph Hendrikson stood just inside. He turned as Paul came in, his hand going automatically to the handle of his side arm, then moving away when he saw who it was.

"Where's Dorland?" Paul asked.

"Changing." Hendrikson waved a hand toward the partitioned area at the back of the room. His eyes remained on Paul. "I don't know what happened out there, Mr. Jurick. I should've spotted that guy. Mr. Avery's show was so ... well . . ." His shoulders moved in a slight shrug.

"We'll talk about it later," Paul said. One of Jeffrey Hanes's greatest problems in maintaining security around Dorland Avery was that the mesmerizing effects of Dorland's performance often interfered with the alert watchfulness that was needed by the security men. The men were supposed to guard against getting too caught up in Dorland's show, but that required a mental discipline that not everyone possessed. Even Paul often felt himself sinking into the music and colors. It would be up to Hanes to decide if Steph

Hendrikson would be able to do his job well enough to remain a part of the security team. "Wait outside. Don't let anyone in but Jeffrey." Hendrikson nodded and left the room. Paul

crossed to the utility counter to pour himself a cup of hot jo. The dressing room was large and luxurious, with a sofa and several deep-cushioned chairs grouped around an entertainment console in one