"Where's Dorland?" Paul asked.
"Changing." Hendrikson waved a hand toward the partitioned area at the back of the room. His eyes remained on Paul. "I don't know what happened out there, Mr. Jurick. I should've spotted that guy. Mr. Avery's show was so ... well . . ." His shoulders moved in a slight shrug.
"We'll talk about it later," Paul said. One of Jeffrey Hanes's greatest problems in maintaining security around Dorland Avery was that the mesmerizing effects of Dorland's performance often interfered with the alert watchfulness that was needed by the security men. The men were supposed to guard against getting too caught up in Dorland's show, but that required a mental discipline that not everyone possessed. Even Paul often felt himself sinking into the music and colors. It would be up to Hanes to decide if Steph
Hendrikson would be able to do his job well enough to remain a part of the security team. "Wait outside. Don't let anyone in but Jeffrey." Hendrikson nodded and left the room. Paul
crossed to the utility counter to pour himself a cup of hot jo. The dressing room was large and luxurious, with a sofa and several deep-cushioned chairs grouped around an entertainment console in one
CLARION 17
corner, and an interstream commset in another. The carpet was thick and white. The dressing area was separated from the lounge area by the only piece of dark furniture in the room—a large, freestanding wooden wardrobe.
"Steph told me what happened."
Paul turned from the counter as Dorland came around the wardrobe. He had exchanged the white jumpsuit for the sort of clothing he usually wore offstage—dark slacks and a faded blue shirt.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Sure." Paul sat down in one of the cushioned chairs, took a sip ofjo and realized the cup was shaking so much he nearly slopped the hot liquid over his hand. He put the cup carefully on a low table beside him.
"Why were you limping?" Dorland asked.
"Banged my leg on something. It isn't serious."
"Make sure you have somebody look at it."
"Yes, Mother."
"Do you think this had anything to do with the call we got?"
"Presumably." Something about the way Dorland asked the question made Paul look at him more closely. Dorland's face was still pale, but his eyes were sharp and direct, and Paul knew the last vestiges of the player's trance had left him. "Do you have any idea why someone would try to kill you?"
"Of course not." Dorland turned away abruptly and went to the window. He pressed the wall stud to clear it and looked out at the falling dusk.
"Unhappy fan, I suppose."
"He didn't look like a fan." Paul thought about the cold blue eyes. "What he did was no impulse." The door slid open to admit Jeffrey Hanes. He did not look happy.
"He's still alive," he said before they could ask.
"In surgery now, but the doctors don't give him much chance. I don't think we'll be getting any 18
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answers out of him. The one in the balcony got away."
"Got away?" Paul asked in surprise. "How?"
"He slipped out before we could seal the exits."
"Damn."
"The Guard threw a net around the auditorium," Hanes went on. "Maybe we'll get lucky. Anyway, I think we should cancel the next show and get out of here."
"I agree," Paul said.
Dorland had kept silent, as if he had little interest in what had happened in the auditorium. Now he turned from the window and said, "We can't cancel the show this late. People have come from all over the local sector to see it. Besides, we'll have to schedule another one to make up for the show that was ruined."
"Ruined?" Paul said. "You were almost done. In another five minutes—"
"Set it up for tomorrow night," Dorland went on in the same quiet voice. He thought for a moment, then added, "Some people may not be able to come back because of other plans. Refund double their ticket price. That might help make up for what happened."
Paul stared gloomily down at his hands, calculating what that would cost. He bit his lip and turned to Hanes. "Step up security for tonight. Two guards at each door, and at least a dozen inside. You'll have to use local people, but make sure you screen them."
Hanes nodded and turned to leave. After the door had hissed shut, Paul leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting himself sink deeper into the cushions of the chair. He felt as if all the energy had been drained out of him. A moment later he heard the sound of the heavy wardrobe door sliding open.
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19
"You aren't going out, I hope," he said without opening his eyes.
"Not really."
Paul's eyes snapped open. He had never heard the voice before. The bearded man stepped out of the wardrobe, ducking under the low doorway. He held a small black gun in one hand. Dorland had turned from the window to stare at him.
The man closed the wardrobe door and glanced at Paul. Then his eyes went to Dorland. A slow grin grew across his face.
"Hello, Dorland," he said. "It's been a long time."
Chapter Two
WHEN DORLAND DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING, THE MAN
crossed the room in three long strides and dropped into one of the chairs across from Paul. He was a big, round-shouldered man with skin that was lined and creased from exposure to the elements. His eyelids drooped, giving him a look of haughty superciliousness. His hair was thin and sunbleached. He seemed relaxed and at ease—much different from the way he had looked in the auditorium. The brown coveralls he wore looked as if he'd slept in them three days running.
He glanced at the door, then waved the gun.
"Better lock that."
Paul hesitated, thinking about Hendrikson just outside. Then his eyes went back to the gun. It was small and black, with a bulbous muzzle and a large cylinder just above the handle grip that might have been the power supply. Paul wasn't familiar with the style, but the gun looked capable enough in the man's hand to make him decide against the idea that had half formed in his head. He pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the room to 21
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touch the thermal dimple beside the door. The lock slid home with a soft whir.
After Paul returned to his chair, the man's eyes went back to Dorland.
"My name is Selmer Ogram. Maybe you remember me." He spoke Basic with an accent that favored lilting vowels and light consonants. When Dorland didn't respond, he shrugged. "Or maybe not. I was just a kid when you left Clarion. My father was John Ogram." He paused again as if he expected the name to have an impact. "He was killed at the Troy Three interchange a few months after he took you out. Deacon Krause got him." Still Dorland remained silent. He stood stiffly near the open window, staring at Ogram, his face drawn with lines of tension. Ogram's statements meant nothing to Paul. He had worked for Dorland Avery for nearly five years and had never heard him mention the name Ogram or a place called Clarion. But it was clear that Ogram's words were touching something inside Dorland.
"It would help if you told us what this is all about," Paul said.
Ogram shifted his hooded eyes. "Who are you?"
"Paul Jurick. I'm Mr. Avery's business manager." Ogram chuckled.
"Something funny about that?"
"Dorland Avery, the great psi-player." Ogram shook his head. "Coming here was a waste of time as far as I'm concerned."
"Feel free to leave," Paul suggested. Ogram grinned crookedly. "Can't. Not till I've done my duty."
"You still haven't told us what that is. Your friend nearly killed Mr. Avery back there in the auditorium."
"Deacon Bekman is no friend of mine," Ogram
CLARION 23
said. "But my business isn't with you. Keep quiet while I have a chat with the great psi-player." The mocking tone infuriated Paul, but there was little he could do while Ogram held the black gun. He throttled his anger and leaned back in the chair.