intensity of the music diminished. The two technicians who occupied the other chairs in the control booth were busy at their consoles, but Doriand had direct control over the music and most of the stage lights from micropads that were strapped to his hands.
Now Dorland's face was tilted upward, pale and calm. The medallion on his forehead reflected glittering fragments of light. Paul stared for a moment, wondering what was going on inside
Dorland's head. The player's trance was deep, there was no doubt of that—
"Well?" said Hanes.
Paul blinked and cleared his throat. "He'll wrap it up in ten minutes or so."
Hanes was silent a moment, then: "If anything's going to happen, it'll be at the end." Paul pulled his eyes away from Doriand.
"What?"
"That's when all the lights go out but the big white spot from the ceiling."
Then Paul understood, and he had to admit it made sense. Doriand always closed his show the same way. The big speakers would be roaring with that peculiar hum Doriand called the mood relaxer, and the auditorium would be dark except for the single brilliant light on the stage. Doriand would make a perfect target with his arms stretched out and his feet apart in the stance that always made Paul think uncomfortably of a crucifixion. In the darkness a man would probably be able to slip away without trouble; after one of Dorland's shows, most people in the audience felt drained, without the motivation to do more than hug the person they had come with or sit quietly and consider the deeper meaning of life.
"I'm going up to the balcony," Hanes said abruptly. He left his seat, stepped through the doorway onto the platform and climbed quickly up
CLARION 13
the narrow ladder. A moment later he disappeared through the dark opening that led to the service area above the ceiling. Paul lifted the goggles again. The bearded man seemed unaware of the two
security men who stood in the darkened aisle a few rows behind him. As Paul watched, Hanes emerged from a side door and went down the aisle to stand with his men.
Paul had begun to lower the goggles when he saw something that made him look again. The bearded man had leaned forward in his seat, eyes widening into an intense stare. Puzzled, Paul turned to follow the man's line of vision. He scanned the area near the stage and saw nothing that looked out of place. He turned the goggles back to the balcony and hit the stud to enlarge the image. The man was definitely reacting to something he had seen near the stage. Now Paul saw that he was not staring directly at the stage, but slightly to the side.
Again Paul followed the man's line of sight. He moved the goggles slowly across each of the first few rows; then something caught his attention and he brought them back for a second look. A thin, balding man in a dark suit sat in an aisle seat of the front row. The goggles had passed over him before, but now Paul realized that the man was not watching Doriand. He had instead turned to look down the aisle at one ofHanes's security guards, who was stationed near the exit door. As the thin man turned back to the stage, Paul saw that something was clasped in his hands. Paul touched the zoom control again and leaned forward closer to the glass wall for a better angle of view.
The object in the man's hands was a gun.
Paul felt a surge of adrenaline, and his eyes jerked back to the stage. The beat of the music had been replaced with a light melody. Dorland's face was tilted up, patterned by changing light and shadow. He was drawing close to the moment when 14
William Greenleaf
sudden darkness would fall and the white beam from the overhead spotlight would hit him.
Sweat trickled inside the collar of Paul's shirt. The security guard stationed at the exit near the stage was watching Dorland, and it was clear he hadn't noticed the man in the front row. Paul swiveled back to look at Jeffrey Hanes and the other security men. Even if he could somehow get their attention, they would never be able to reach the front row of the auditorium in time.
Paul rose from his chair, his mind churning with indecision. Then he ducked through the opening to the platform, grasped the ladder rails and went up as fast as he could through the ceiling access port. His heart pounded as he forced himself to wait a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Service catwalks with safety rails led out across the suspended ceiling. He selected one that angled in the right direction and ran along it to an exit point that he judged to be close to the stage. He dropped down the ladder to a service corridor and followed that to a door that opened into the auditorium. The security man at the stage door was Steph Hendrikson. Paul yelled as he ran past, but didn't wait to see if Hendrikson comprehended. He
rushed down the darkened aisle with no specific plan in mind, stumbling over feet yet somehow keeping his balance, ignoring the confused murmur that grew behind him. He risked a glance at the stage as the music crashed and broke into another light melody. Colors blossomed, washing away the shadows as they brightened to dazzling shades of yellow. Dorland stood rigid, arms stretched toward the ceiling. The music faded and a deep hum began to build from the speakers. The man in the front row lifted his hand and Paul saw the reflected gleam of metal.
"No!" he yelled, still running.
The man began to turn an instant before Paul hit
CLARION 15
him from the back and at the same time grabbed for the wrist that held the gun, trying desperately to deflect it. He caught a brief glimpse of a narrow face and cold blue eyes before the gun's muzzle winked, and Paul heard the snap of superheated air beside his ear. The men grappled, then fell across the railing and out into the aisle. Paul's knee smashed into one of the rail supports, and a monstrous bolt of pain rammed up his leg. The thin man twisted free with surprising strength and jerked around, bringing the gun up. Paul had time to stare at the dark muzzle an instant before he heard a crack! from behind him. The man grunted once and rolled over onto his face and lay still. Paul fell back onto his elbows and drew in whacking breaths. Steph Hendrikson leaned over him with his gun still smelling faintly of hot metal.
"Are you okay, Mr. Jurick?"
Paul couldn't find the breath to answer.
Hendrikson helped him to his feet. A sudden murmur broke out around them as people began to react to what had happened. Paul turned to look up at the stage. Dorland stood motionless, arms at his sides. A violet hue still hung around him, drifting in faint, smoky wisps. His eyes were dark, half lidded, still full of the player's trance. The medallion on his forehead gleamed with purple light.
"Get him out of here," Paul rasped. Hendrikson hesitated, looking down at the man who still lay motionless at their feet. Then Jeffrey Hanes and two of his men arrived, and Hanes took charge with a few barked orders. Two of the men went up the steps and hustled Dorland behind the curtain to the dressing room.
"You all right?" Hanes asked.
Paul nodded and looked down at the man in the aisle. "Is he . . ." The words trailed off as the odor of scorched flesh reached his nostrils. He felt something turn over in his stomach.
\6_________________William Greenleaf
Hanes took Paul's arm and pulled him away from the body. "Go back with Dorland. I'll take care of things out here."
Paul didn't argue. His knee was beginning to cry for attention by the time he had gone around the side of the stage and down the short passageway that led to the dressing room. Fastened to the door was a metal plate with simple black lettering: DORLAND AVERY.
Steph Hendrikson stood just inside. He turned as Paul came in, his hand going automatically to the handle of his side arm, then moving away when he saw who it was.