Heather said, “They’ll all be boys.”

Leaning over he kissed her on the nose. She smiled, took his hand, patted it warmly. “We can go anywhere tonight,” he said to her in a low, firm, controlled, and highly projected voice, almost a father voice; it generally worked well with Heather, whereas nothing else did. Unless, he thought, I walk off.

She feared that. Sometimes in their quarrels, especially at the house in Zurich, where no one could hear them or interfere, he had seen the fear on her face. The idea of being alone appalled her; he knew it; she knew it; the fear was part of the reality of their joint life. Not their public life; for them, as genuinely professional entertainers, there they had complete, rational control: however angry and estranged they became they would function together in the big worshiping world of viewers, letter writers, noisy fans. Even outright hatred could not change that.

But there could be no hate between them anyhow. They had too much in common. They got so damn much from each other. Even mere physical contact, such as this, sitting together in the Rolls skyfly, made them happy. For as long, anyhow, as it lasted.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his custom-tailored genuine silk suit—one of perhaps ten in the whole world—he brought out a wad of government-certified bills. A great number of them, compressed into a fat little bundle.

“You shouldn’t carry so much cash on you,” Heather said naggingly, in the tone he disliked so much: the opinionated mother tone.

Jason said, “With this”—he displayed the package of bills—“we can buy our way into any—”

“If some unregistered student who has sneaked across from a campus burrow just last night doesn’t chop your hand off at the wrist and run away with it, both your hand and your flashy money. You always have been flashy. Flashy and loud. Look at your tie. Look at it!” She had raised her voice, now; she seemed genuinely angry.

“Life is short,” Jason said.