“No,” he said, stubborn. “You’re wobbly.”

“All right,” she replied, leaving.

Night-cycle in the Plaza, and the silver-shining overheads were out. The wall-lights provided a different illumination, winking through their color-phases, alternately dyeing the faces of the revellers blue or red or green or violet. The dancers were out in force, music was everywhere, and the air was thick with the sweet gaiety of joy-smoke.

On the polished stairway that curved up towards the second tier of shops, Starlady took her stand and began to spin.

“Hey,” she called to the throngs below her, to the people pushing by, “Hey, stop and listen to me spin. You won’t soon have the chance. The Marquis is going to kill me.”

Below, the off-worlders paused, curious, admiring. Whispers were exchanged. Prometheans shook their heads and grinned. And the swaggers in their swoopsuits, the redheads out to sell, the drooling dreamers and the men who doled out dreams, the pimps, the bodyguards, the dancers and the thieves—well, they knew what was going on. A show was coming. They stopped to watch.

And Starlady spun, Starlady with the shiny, dark hair, in a suit of milky nightwhite that took the colors of the lights, Starlady with a black rod in her hand.

“Marquis took my lover,” she shouted to the gathering crowd. “He chilled down Hal and stole the Golden Boy, but he hasn’t chilled down me.” And now the no-knife in her hand was alive, its ghost blade flickering strangely in the violet light. And Starlady was sheathed in purple, her face stained grim and somber.

“I’ll kill him if he comes,” she said, as they drew away around her, leaving her alone on the stairs. “Me, Starlady, and I’ve never used a no-knife in my life.” The Plaza was growing quiet, tension spread outward like ripples in a pool. Here the talking stopped, there the dancers ceased to whirl, over in the corner a joyman killed his smoke machine. “But he won’t come, not Marquis, and I’ll tell you why. He’s chilled.”