With a shade of bitterness Eleanor said: "Well, there goes our host. Quite a party, wasn't it?"

Benteley's head had begun to ache. His eyes hurt from the glare of the overhead lights. A man pushing by had jabbed him hard in the ribs. Leaning against the wall, a young woman was removing her sandals and rubbing her red-nailed toes.

"What do you want?" Eleanor asked him.

"I want to leave."

She led him expertly through the drifting groups of people towards one of the exits—sipping her drink as she walked.

Herb Moore blocked their way. His face was a dark, unhealthy red. With him was the pale, silent Keith Pellig.

"Here you are," Moore muttered thickly, teetering unsteadily, his glass sloshing over. He slapped Pellig on the back. "This is the most important person alive. Feast your eyes, Benteley."

Pellig said nothing. He gazed impassively at Benteley and Eleanor, his thin body relaxed and supple. There was almost no colour about him. His eyes, his hair, his skin, even his nails, were bleached and translucent.

Benteley put out his hand; Pellig shook it. His hand was cool and faintly moist.

Benteley gazed at Pellig with dulled fascination. There was something repellent about the listless, slender shape. A sexless, juiceless, hermaphroditic quality.

"You're not drinking," Benteley's voice rolled out.

Pellig shook his head.

"Why not? Have some methane gale." Benteley fumbled a glass from the tray of a passing MacMillan robot.

Benteley thrust the glass at Pellig. "Eat, drink and be merry. Tomorrow somebody, certainly not you, will die. Pellig, how does it feel to be a professional killer? You don't look like one. You don't look like anything at all, not even a man."

Eleanor tugged furiously at his arm. "Ted, Verrick's coming?"