They turn on, he thought, to see me. And I am always there. Jason Taverner has never and will never disappoint his fans. However Heather may feel about hers.

“You don’t like them,” Jason said as they squirmed and pushed and ducked their way down the steaming, sweatsmelling corridor, “because you don’t like yourself. You secretly think they have bad taste.”

“They’re dumb,” Heather grunted, and cursed quietly as her flat, large hat flopped from her head and disappeared forever within the whale’s belly of close-pressing fans.

“They’re ordinaries,” Jason said, his lips at her ear, partly lost as it was in her great tangle of shiny red hair. The famous cascade of hair so widely and expertly copied in beauty salons throughout Terra.

Heather grated, “Don’t say that word.”

“They’re ordinaries,” Jason said, “and they’re morons. Because”—he nipped the lobe of her ear—“because that’s what it means to be an ordinary. Right?”

She sighed. “Oh, God, to be in the flyship cruising through the void. That’s what I long for: an infinite void. With no human voices, no human smells, no human jaws masticating plastic chewing gum in nine iridescent colors.”

“You really do hate them,” he said.

“Yes.” She nodded briskly. “And so do you.” She halted briefly, turning her head to confront him. “You know your goddamn voice is gone; you know you’re coasting on your glory days, which you’ll never see again.” She smiled at him, then. Warmly. “Are we growing old?” she said, above the mumbles and squeaks of the fans. “Together? Like man and wife?”

Jason said, “Sixes don’t grow old.”

“Oh yes,” Heather said. “Oh yes they do.” Reaching upward, she touched his wavy brown hair. “How long have you ‘been tinting it, dearheart? A year? Three?”

“Get in the flyship,” he said brusquely, maneuvering her ahead of him, out of the building and onto the pavement of Hollywood Boulevard.