Julie studied him sideways, frowning a little. She said, “People miss the whole thing about you, don’t they? You’re not really a compromising, adaptable type at all. You’re a bloody fanatic, Joe. You’re a purist.”

“No,” he said. “It’s like the trouble I have when I travel. Wherever I go, I always want to spend a lifetime there. Anywhere—Tashkent, Calabria, East Cicero. I always want to be born there and grow up and know everything about the place and be horribly ignorant and die. I don’t approve of flying visits. It’s the same thing with the music, I guess. Smells, noises. I know it’s dumb. Let’s go back to your place.”

Julie put her arm through his. Farrell could feel her sudden silent chuckle tugging at him like a kite. The almost-black eyes had turned golden and transparent in the flare of the Waverly. She said, “All right. Come on, I’ll take you where the noises are.”

At her house, she darted in and out of closets while he stood scratching his head; she foraged briskly through drawers and sea chests, tossing bright, soft garments behind her onto the bed. Farrell fingered in astonishment over a rising drift of tights and tunics, horned headdresses, and heavy painted hoods; long furred and scalloped gowns, split from high waist to hem, with bell-shaped sleeves, square shoes and shoes with curling tips, and stiff short cloaks like muletas. He tried on a tall, round-crowned hat, a sort of fur derby, and took it off again.

“I like costume parties,” he ventured at last, “but that isn’t really what I was talking about.”

Julie paused briefly, regarding him across the rainbow heaps with a familiar flash of affectionate irritation. “This isn’t costume,” she said. “This is clothing.” She tossed him a pair of hose with one leg striped vertically in black and white and the other plain white. “Try these on for a start.”