air Timyin Tin turned slowly to follow him, his right
hand seeming to hang limply at shoulder level. He bowed very low just as Archie was about to spring. Archie restrained himself and halted.
"It has indeed been a pleasure," he remarked.
"For this one also," Timyin Tin replied.
"It looks as if white flowers fall upon my shroud. Your hands are so pale."
"To leave the world in spring, with flower guards to honor: it must be peace."
Timyin Tin straightened slowly. Archie began moving his left hand in a slow figure-eight, extending it gradually. His right hand twitched.
Timyin Tin took two sudden steps to his left. Archie moved as if to circle in a clockwise direction, then followed quickly as the other began to turn. A cool breeze touched them both as Archie began a kick with his left foot, thought better of it, shifted his weight, feinted with his right. Timyin Tin extended both hands, palms down, then slowly began lowering the right. Archie moved his head in a slow circle. Then his shoulders began a counter-movement. His hands traced patterns about one another, advancing, retreating, feinting...
Timyin Tin leaned to his right, then to his left, his right hand still descending with extreme slowness. He leaned to the left again
"What," Archie asked him, "is the color of thunder?"....hen to the right, hand still dropping.
Archie feinted with another kick, then lunged forward, claws extended, hands describing wide semicircles about one another.
Timyin Tin's head turned back over his shoulder as his left leg moved behind him. His body turned sideways as his left hand became a V, catching Archie beneath the left armpit. His right hand moved upward toward the other's crotch. He felt but an instant's touch of weight as he twisted to the left. Then Archie was gone, into the night, out over the railing.
"Behold," Timyin Tin replied.
He stood for several heartbeats, regarding the night. Then he bowed again.
He withdrew a pencil-thin tube from a narrow pocket at the outer seam of his right pantleg. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then pointed it toward the sky. He thumbed a stud on its side and a fine red beam emerged from its tip.
With a movement of his wrist, he directed the beam toward the railing. It sliced a thin line through eight inches of stone. He flicked it off and moved to the spot where it had cut. Running his thumb along the groove, he looked down over the railing for the first time. He nodded and turned away, replacing the tube in his pocket.
Soundlessly, he crossed to the stairs. He looked upward and for a moment his vision wavered as the dim interior of the stairwell reminded him of a cold stone corridor in an ancient building he had once known.
He mounted the stairs slowly, keeping close to the left-hand wall. He passed a door, moved toward the next.
When he reached the proper door, he paused. A pale light still shone beneath it. He took the tube into his hand but still he stood, listening. There was a soft stirring within, a creak of furniture, stillness.
He raised the weapon and pointed it at a place near the jamb, where the bar should lie. Then he paused
again and lowered it. He moved forward. Gently, very gently, slowly, he tried the door. It was unfastened. He stepped to the side, raised his weapon again
and pushed it open. He dropped to his knees. The tube fell from his
fingers.
"I did not know," he said. He lowered his forehead to the floor.
One
As he was paying his bill and settling up for the damage to his room. Red was approached by the wagers broker, a small, turbaned man of exotic aroma.
"Congratulations, Mr. Dorakeen," he said. "My, you are looking good this morning."
"I occasionally do," Red replied, turning. "It seldom warrants special notice, however."
"I meant, congratulations on your winnings."
"Oh? I placed a bet on something?"
"Yes. You bet on yourself in the next pass of the black decade, Chadwick versus Dorakeen. Don't you remember?"
"Ouch!" He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it begins to come back. Excuse me, but I'm a little hazy about yesterday. What a damned stupid thing to do....ait a minute. If I won, that means there was an unsuccessful attempt on my life last night."
"So it would seem. Notice has been received that you were successful. Do you want cash, or would you have me credit your account?"
"Credit my account. Were there no particulars, then?"
"None." The man produced a document. "If you will
sign this, I will give you a receipt and your winnings will be deposited."
Red scrawled his signature on it.
"Was there no disturbance in the neighborhood that might have had to do with this?"
"Only if you count the damage that I understand occurred in your room."
He shook his head.
"I doubt that There were no—remains."
"Would you care to place a wager on the fith pass?"
"Fifth? There have only been three attempts, counting this one you just paid on."
"You are listed as having survived four."
"I am afraid I do not understand, and I am not going to confuse the matter by betting again."
The broker shrugged.
"As you would."
Red hefted his bag and turned away. Mondamay glided up, holding Flowers.
"Yes, that was a stupid thing to do," Flowers stated as they headed toward the door. "Placing a bet!"