With those few words, he gave them back their illusion, gave the struggle a purpose. And they threw their emotional arms around him and thanked him with an accolade that threatened to lift the slats from the club’s wooden rafters. Keith saw tears on more than one cheek, felt the tightness in his own throat as he clapped and cheered.
Christopher himself seemed drained, overwhelmed. He stood and lifted his hand to them, but his expression was pained, and he did not stay long on stage. The trip down the aisle to the warm-up room had the smell of a panicky flight.
Keith slipped out into the aisle and followed him inside.
“Terrific,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You really got them with that one. A good finish.”
“It’s a lie,” Christopher said, slumping in a chair.
“What? Listen, they’re still clapping. You’ve gotta go back out.”
“You don’t understand,” Christopher exploded. “It was completely cynical. I don’t believe a word of it. I thought they’d cut my throat if I did it the way I always do. I wanted it in the library. I wanted them to like me.”
“Listen. They do,” Keith said. “Go on back out.”
“I don’t have anything more,” he said hoarsely. “Tell Bill.”
“Jesus, Chris—are you sure?”
“I just want to be alone. Can you be a friend and keep people out for a few minutes?”
“Well—I guess,” Keith said uncertainly, knitting his brows in puzzlement. “Chris—”
“Please. Just get out.”
Keith frowned, shrugged, and slipped out through the door. The lights were already coming up, the audience getting up and milling. He lingered in front of the door, winking and waving to friends as they passed by in the throng, catching a thumbs-up from Greg, who was hunched over the replay screen. Keith decided he must look officiaclass="underline" Someone asked if he could see the guitar; someone else wanted to know if “Caravan to Antares” had been published. Both were disappointed that the answer was no.
Then he saw a face in the crowd that he had not noticed before, a face he had not expected to see.
“Good evening, Mr. Keith,” said Tidwell when he had drawn close. “That last song was recorded?”
“As far as I know.”
“Have a copy sent to Edkins in Culture. The young man is inside?” Tidwell asked, nodding in the direction of the door.
“Yes.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Can you give him a minute? Chris is a bit wrung out.”
“I understand that.”
Keith hesitated. “He’s an archie, in Building 16.”
“So I understand. Is there a point?”
“You can catch him at your convenience—tomorrow morning, say—”
“Thank you. I would prefer to talk to Mr. McCutcheon now.”
Keith swallowed, nodded reluctantly, and stepped aside. “He doesn’t know who you are,” he added.
“Then I’ll tell him,” Tidwell said, and smiled a tight smile. “Then he will know whom to blame for the intrusion.”
Almost a third of the seats were empty when the lights went down for Bonnie Tevens and Ambika. Daniel Keith watched from behind the annex glass as they took the stage. Their high-gloss black clothing dazzled in the spotlight, but the sounds from their wind controllers were more subdued, aping a traditional flute (Bonnie) and oboe (Ambika).
Shortly, Greg emerged from the darkened club to join Keith at the window. “Where’s Chris?”
“Gone,” said Keith. “Dr.—Tom Grimes, one of the colonists, dragged him away.” Tidwell had had, at most, a couple of minutes in private with Christopher before Ambika arrived and chased the two men from the dressing room. Christopher had little to say when he emerged, and his frame of mind was unreadable, except that he was obviously uncomfortable with the hail-fellow-well-met praise that swirled around him. He and Tidwell had left quickly, almost an escape.
“Is he coming back?”
“It didn’t sound like it.”
“Too bad,” said Greg, rattling the plastic-cased chipdisks he held in one hand. “I made a couple of quick copies for him. Oh, well. I’m going to do some touch-up edits tonight, and he can have the whole banana tomorrow.”
“Let me have one of those, then,” Keith said.
“Sure. I can’t break down until after the second set,” the tech said, peering through the glass. “Are you staying?”
Keith patted the end of the guitar case which was leaning against the wall beside him. “I got custody of Claudia,” he said. “A responsibility I’ll be glad to be done with. I think I’m going to just run it past Chris’s place and go on home. Unless you were really asking for help?”
Greg shook his head. “Sandy’s staying, and that’s all the extra hands I need. Take baby home.”
Outside, a half dozen bodies were blocking the stairs as they shared a pep-pack. They made way for Keith to squeeze by, but only barely, and then went back to passing the stick and giggling. Keith headed down the street toward where his flyer waited.
Halfway down the block, his ears pricked up at the sound of quick, light footsteps behind him. Keith spun around, suddenly on alert, to find himself confronting a redheaded girl in a black leather jacket, short boots, and black jeans. In the streetlight, she was a black ghost with a sallow yellow face.
“You’re not the singer,” she said, her features contorting with surprise.
“No.”
“Damn. Is he gone already?”
“I’m afraid so,” Keith said, and started to turn away.
“Wait,” she said. “You have to tell me something. He’s a Memphis colonist, isn’t he? He has to be.”
“No,” Keith said. “He’s not.” The denial was automatic and emphatic.
“But you’re all from the Project, aren’t you?”
That denial was automatic, too. “He’s from Oregon. I’m from Illinois.”
“I can read,” she said, pointing toward his shirt.
Keith looked down to see his AT-Houston ID dangling from his shirt pocket. “Look—” he began, giving himself a mental mule-kick as he unpinned the badge.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t any secret in there. And I’m a friendly.”
“Look, ah—”
“Jinna.”
“Jinna,” he echoed. “Like I said, Chris is gone. I’m just playing porter for him. Sorry to disappoint you.”
She took a step closer. “I’d really like to meet him. Couldn’t you take me along where you’re taking that?”
“Sorry. I can’t help you.”
Her voice shifted into a husky timbre. “I haven’t given you a reason to yet.”
“Look—”
“Yes—look,” she said, opening her jacket. Underneath, she was naked—or nearly so. From her small rounded breasts to her slender waist she was heavily skin-painted, a feral jungle of flowers and vines intertwined with a sinuous green python. The snake’s glowing eyes—a jeweled piercing through the left nipple, lit with its own light—argued for the painting being a permanent laser tattoo.
She let the jacket fall closed and stepped closer, within arm’s reach. “Is that your flyer?” she asked “Take us up to a thousand and put it on auto. I’ll give you a thank-you in advance.”
Keith shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She reached for his crotch, stroked the fabric over his bulge. “You ought to find out what you’re turning down. Come on, step out of the light and I’ll audition.”
Annoyed at his own response, he pushed her hand away angrily. “What do you want from Chris? What do you think he can give you?”
“I just want to meet him. We’re twins, inside. I could tell it when he sang. We want the same things. We hurt in the same places.”