He danced away, though her blade drew blood from an unwary forearm, and kicked, knife-gleam in his hand as he spun back. There was no time for finesse; no time for the subtleties of an honorable fight, with his compatriots bearing down upon them. Corbinye feinted, twisted, slipped—and threw as he leaned in to take the advantage, lodging her knife in his throat.

  From the woman she had stunned, a keen of sheer hatred. Corbinye ripped her blade free, snatched the other out of slack fingers, reversed it and threw, setting the blade in the woman's chest as she ran for the 'Ramp.

  Behind her, shouts and thundering footsteps; the whine and clatter of something thrown and fallen short. Corbinye followed the 'Ramp's twist, glanced up and saw her doom standing at the entrance, holding a pipe in his hand.

  She checked minutely; cried out with sudden pain as something bit deep into her thigh; yanked it free and whirled, so that she faced them with two weapons ready, and her eyes gleaming murder.

  The first never hesitated, but engaged at once, the second playing backup and slicing a path for the third to get behind as the one with the pipe came down to join in.

  But even at that, it took longer and was more expensive than they expected. Just before the end Chel went with a dagger in his eye and Kris screamed and swung the pipe harder than he might, again and even again, though it was over by then, and Corbinye lay in a slick red puddle on the 'Ramp.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was raining in OldTown.

  The shabby young man in the brown tunic lifted his face and let the rain run into his ears and soak his hair. Almost, he laughed, remembering the first time he had been out in rain, screaming at Edreth to turn the sprinkler off and his master laughing. And, later, giving him books and his very own reader, so he learned about clouds and condensation rates and atmospheric conditions and weather.

  The Library was lit bright against the gloom; the large, cracked window in front still shuttered. Gem frowned, then shrugged. No reason for Shilban to open the shutters to overcast sky and rain, after all. Better to stay inside, cocooned in the butter-yellow light of many lamps, and the warmth of wood burning on the crumbling hearth.

  Gem went lightly up the chancy stairs, twisted the ancient knob and pushed the door wide.

  Stared for—a heartbeat? an eternity?—as the young man struck the old man and screamed into his face, "Where is he?"

  Shilban shook his head, raised it and said, quite clearly, "I don't know."

  The man holding him shook him cruelly, but the one who had put the question only shrugged and sighed. He went to an overflowing shelf, pulled a book free at random and walked over to the fireplace. He showed the book to Shilban, then casually tossed it into the fire.

  The old man screamed, writhed, and suddenly slumped in his captor's arms.

  At the door, Gem screamed and hurled forward, knife out.

  The questioner fell, and the man who held Shilban, before Carmen brought the dart-gun up and shot him in the throat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pain, disorientation and a smell of blood, far up in the nose.

  Eyes quivered, resisted, finally came open—to darkness, horrifying and utter.

  Throat cramped, but would not let the words through; as the body lay, stone-like, apart, and would not move.

  "Easy, easy, there." The voice was kind; the hand upon one's forehead gentle. "I'm going to give you a shot to make you sleep," the voice said, and there were other small sounds, and a prick of pain.

  "There, now," the voice said; "everything's going to be fine."

  Tight muscles at last allowed a word. "Where?"

  The kind hand smoothed one's forehead as the drug began its work, distancing the distant body. "The Blue House," the voice whispered. "Everything's going to be fine. . .."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Bortho-Lorania Unit for Egotranslation offers a wide range of service to both individual and municipal clients.

  For the individual, there is the transplant service, which makes suffering in an old, diseased or wounded body unnecessary. Healthy bodies are available from a diverse pool of age and ethnic groups, as well as a wide range of type. Persons considering a change of corporal residency are encouraged to take the tour and view prospective bodies. A Resurrective Therapist is also in residence to answer your questions and assist you in coming to closure with any anxiety you may have in undertaking such a change.

  There are also a select group of bodies available for temporary use. Inquiries should be directed to the Office of Resurrective Therapy, which will coordinate details with the Department of Justice.

  If you have any questions regarding the operation or system of the Bortho-Lorania Unit, please do not hesitate to contact our Public Relations Department.

  The Bortho-Lorania Unit for Egotranslation is accredited jointly by the Hospital of Life Sciences, Bannger, and the Renfrew System Department of Justice, and is a publicly-held corporation.

  —Excerpted from Pamphlet BLUEPR-66

  "Is Translation for You?"

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Well?" asked Edreth sharply, looking up from his book with a frown.

  Wordlessly, he held the ancient firearm out, light gleaming off copper insets and mahogany grip. Barely, he was able to control the shaking of his hands, the expression of his face, so that no sign of exultation was apparent. A master thief, Edreth had taught him, was one who went about things pragmatically, and, afterwards, might feel satisfaction for a job executed according to his own high standards. Only a fool, or a novice, allowed celebration to mar the pure business of stealing.

  And yet—he had done it! Taken the precious thing out of its case under the guard's very eyes, in a roomful of milling people, circumventing the central alarm—all, all, all himself.

  Edreth glanced at the gun, raised his brows and repeated. "Well?"

  "I've brought it, master," he said, fighting to keep his cracking voice even. "I took it as you said to, during peak hours, and left the central system intact."

  "I see." Edreth deigned to take the thing then, and study it, and rub his hand along the worn satin wood. "Very well." He held the gun out, grip first.

  "Now, put it back."

  "Put it back!" He gasped, voice cracking twice.

  Edreth raised his brows and Gem reluctantly took the beautiful old thing and slipped it out of sight.

  "Yes, master," he said, and silently sighed.

  Back at the museum, he twisted the knob in a door cracked and drizzling paint chips; pushed it open and stepped gingerly over the rotting threshold—to stop in mingled shock and terror as the young man struck the older and shouted, "Where is he?"

  "I don't know," the old man said, and was shaken brutally by the one who held him, arms pinned behind, while the questioner merely shrugged and went to a shelf, extracted a book, displayed it and tossed it into the flames.

  "No!" He leapt across the room, knife out, but Shilban was hanging limp and slack-faced and a thrust killed the questioner and a slash across the throat accounted for the other and—

  "Shilban?" More a hiss than a word—the best that swollen tongue and cracked lips could do.

  The dream receded, leaving him a reality shot with various aches, of which pounding head and ringing ears were the worst. Thirst was a misery that accelerated toward agony as he came more fully aware.

  Where? he wondered.

  He was lying on his stomach on a soft surface; and his mistreated ears could detect no sound, beyond the hum of the filtering system. He pried his eyes open; ran dry tongue over sticky lips and tasted salt.

  Bare inches from his nose was a mug, painted with a design of white flowers on a field of blue—handmade, his automatic appraisal went, but not intrinsically valuable. He concentrated, moved an arm that was dead weight alone, without muscle or sensation; forced it to place its fingers around the mug and lift it.

  Raised his head—and drank.

  There was a bitter tang to the water, but he drained the mug and allowed his head to thump onto the mattress. Slack fingers still braceleting the cup, he closed his eyes and listened to the chime of his ears, and the beat of his heart.

  * * *

  "Wake up!"

  The command was emphasized by a whack across his rump and Gem gasped, twisted, hand with cup rising for the throw—and froze, as the man with the bitter eyes leveled a gun at him.

  "Try it," he said softly, finger taut on the trigger. "Just give me an excuse, okay?"

  "No," Gem rasped. The man grunted, disappointment showing, and motioned with the gun.

  "Up you go—nice and easy—hands where I can see them, okay?"

  He slid to his feet, nice and easy, and stood with his hands at chest level, open and palm-out, facing his captor.

  "Turn around," the man said; "out the door and left. Try to run and you're meat, got it? Just like Birl and Julen."

  Wordlessly, with exquisite gentleness, Gem turned and walked toward the door, which opened at his approach, and turned left down the hallway. Behind him, the gunman's boots squeaked.

  "Hold it!"

  Gem obeyed, glancing quickly around. To the left a blank white wall. To the right, a door indistinguishable from the last six they had passed. The gunman stepped forward, weapon trained on the center of Gem's chest, and laid his hand against the plate.

  The door slid aside and he gestured with the gun. "Inside."

  Inside was real wooden flooring, and a handwoven rug in rusts and browns and cream centered before a teak-wood desk as large as a single-man spacecraft. The walls were white, here hanging an abstract painting, there a rope-braided tapestry. Bookshelves held pottery totems, bits of unfinished gem and carvings. Gem's hands itched, his thief's judgment estimating and evaluating.

  "Here he is, Ms. Belaconto."

  Estimation crashed to a halt. He turned gently toward the window and bowed.

  "Lady."

  "Gem ser Edreth." She strolled toward him across yet another handmade rug, aquamarine eyes wide in a face that betrayed somewhat of tension. "I hope your accommodations were not overly unpleasant."

  "I had very little opportunity to study them," he said as she stopped before him.

  "Then all's well." She glanced beyond his shoulder. "You may go, Carmen."

  "Ms. Belaconto—"

  "I said that you may go, Carmen," Steel glinted in the perfect voice before she smiled and inclined her head. "Thank you."

  "Yes, Ms. Belaconto." A whisper of sound, which may have been his bow, and a bit of boot-squeak before the door whispered open—snicked shut.

  "Well." She smiled, slightly and unconvincingly, and gestured toward the chairs set near the window. "I beg you, sir, seat yourself and be comfortable."

  He cleared his throat softly. "Lady, I ask why you have brought me here."

  "Why, to continue our conversation," she said; "but there is no reason for us to be uncomfortable while we speak. Please, sir—sit down."

  There was command in that and his body almost betrayed him by obeying. He shook his head sharply. "The conversation we parted on was finished; though I might ask you how it happens that your gun-sworn were harrying a grandfather in OldTown?"

  There was a slight pause before she turned and walked a few paces away from him, toward the rug and facing chairs. "They were there at my order," she said flatly; "to discover what had become of Gem ser Edreth." Another pause, which he did nothing to fill; then, softly, baiting him:

  "You do not ask what became of the old man."

  He bowed. "I had hoped that the hospitality you had shown me you had also extended to him."

  "Then you're a fool," she snapped, eyes glittering; "he's dead."

  Grief, sudden and crushing—and as quickly, outrage, that she should order it; that she should gloat of it and use it like a knife, to cut and weaken him.

  She smiled. "You will do as I say, Gem ser Edreth, and you will do it with courtesy and care."

  "Because you murder my friend and savage my house?" He snapped forward two paces; saw her hand slip into her pocket and stopped, grinning. "A gun, lady? Shoot me and all's for nothing—as it is now! Shall I obey a madwoman, who kills for no cause? You destroy before you threaten; and—"

  "Your cousin."

  He froze, staring; saw the outline of hand in pocket tense, as if she gripped the gun in earnest.

  "Your cousin," she repeated. "Corbinye Faztherot."

  He took a deep breath. "She is not in this."

  She smiled, and gently shook her head. "Your cousin is in the Blue House."

  Fury jerked him forward; the gun in her hand stopped him, and his thoughts were for Corbinye, who was strong and full of life and in it because she had threatened a madwoman's minions. Corbinye, with her own mad obsession, and her youth and her off-handed courage.

  The Blue House—ship and stars! What a fine price Corbinye's body would bring!

  "There is nothing left for you to destroy, then, Saxony Belaconto," he heard himself say from worlds away, "saving only myself."

  "The bitch is alive!" she snapped, finger tight on the trigger of her gun. "She should be dead—I lost two top fighters to her and—a captain. All beyond recall! But your cousin we brought to the Blue House, though she was two breaths away from her death. We paid the price—and she lives."

  He stood utterly still, looking at her and thinking how many tricks were yet possible; and how unlikely it was that Corbinye's new body in any way approached the perfection of her original.

  "Because we have shown this mercy—gone to this expense—for your cousin," Saxony Belaconto was saying, very softly, "you will do precisely as you are told. Fail in any way and she gains yet a third body—as old and decrepit and ugly and painful as can be acquired." She lowered the gun, slowly, but did not yet slip it away. "Do you understand me, Gem ser Edreth?"

  "I will see her."

  She laughed, sweet and horrifying as a girl. "But, of course! Take the evening—assure yourself that the Vornet is generous, even to its enemies. And return to me at Second Noon tomorrow, so that I may give you the details of your task." She waved a hand. "You may go."

  He did so, omitting the bow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The walls were covered with red-and-gold flowers, printed on a reflective foil background. There were tubs of flowers flanking the receptionist, flooding the waiting room with their odor, and an empty bud vase on his desk. He nodded as he scanned the patient list and looked up at Gem with a smile.

  "Corbinye Faztherot. Yes, sir. Room 14-86. Our Ms. Jancy will escort you. Just a moment while I let her know you're here." He touched a key on his console. Gem wandered across the room, wincing away from the gaudy wallpaper and the sharp-edged light, and stared out the window.

  The Blue House was on a mezzanine level—MidTown, according to the local government—equally handy to Up and DownTown; within sight of the Port. Gem stared at the familiar constellation of DownTown. No reason, now, to bide away from his house—mere instinct had sent him to an UpTown hotel to shower and change into clothes more expected of a family affluent enough to pay the body-fee.

  "Master ser Edreth?" The woman who asked it was petite and sprightly and smiling. He bowed and lightly brushed her outstretched hand with the tips of his fingers.

  "I'm Coral Jancy," she said, smile never dimming. "You're here to see your cousin, I'm told. Right this way."

  He followed her past the receptionist and the tubs of flowers; through a door and into a blessedly dim hallway.

  "Have you been here before?" his guide asked him, smiling up into his face. "Visited a friend, perhaps, or another member of your family who had undergone translation?"

  He shook his head. "No."

  "Well, then," she said cheerily, "don't be disappointed if your cousin seems a little disoriented, or takes a little while to recognize you. It's perfectly natural. The procedure is perfectly safe, but it is radical and there is a progression of natural and necessary adjustments that the patient must go through on her way to complete synergy."

  "Yes," said Gem, trying to breathe evenly, though the smell of flowers was overpowering.

  "Now, in your cousin's case," Ms. Jancy continued, "we were quite, quite fortunate. Of course, we always try to match body-type as closely as possible in emergency cases, to minimize any further shock to the patient, you know."

  "Of course," Gem echoed, as they turned into a wider hallway and paused before a bank of lifts.