"We'll meet you at Freshwater after you keep your appointment at the amphitheater, PC," Dana grinned.

"Oh-oh." Christmas glanced guiltily at his timer and went out to the sled. As he floated into the evening a troop of giant wolf-spiders paraded onto the track below him, prancing daintily on twenty-foot legs. The bugle made sweet sounds.

Arcadia, Nisrair had called it. Arcady was a pastoral dream. No, this was a different dream-onethat had kept his race alive, of all the orphan races. A bright improbable dream that their ancestors had managed to weave into the galaxy's life currents so their children need never wake up and die.

It had even hooked those golems from the Clouds. Christmas chuckled, recalling Ser Nisrair's discomfiture. The poor spooks had been paralyzed by Gal Q's briefing.

Grinning, he turned a long lazy circle toward Admin. Then his grin faded. In his mind was the image of Nisrair's round, receding eye. It had been unforgivable to make him bare his soul that way. How could Nisrair have fallen down so badly in briefing them? He must have been really frantic, Christmas decided; he'd never before failed to explain the set-up here to visitors in advance. In fact, he'd never before failed at much of anything.

The eye came back, brighter, expressively clinical.

"Why, you mealy-mouthed big smart c.o.c.kroach!" Christmas exploded aloud. "I should have known!"

He whipped the sled savagely over Admin, seeing it all now. That request of Nisrair's-he hadn't been asking Christmas to let them press some b.u.t.tons or fly over a track. He had them figured, he was looking for something to get under their hides with. So he picked the Tragedy of Terra. Played Live.

"You soulless big blue bug-" Christmas noticed startled faces turning toward him as he shot over a recreation deck. Slowly, his jaw came back to normal.

"It's his job to get rapport; he got rapport." Christmas grunted. His lips quirked.

Grinning once more, the Steward of Raceworld braked his sled smartly onto the roof of the amphitheater where the Secretary of Raceworld was preparing with all ceremony to award a medal to an intrepid mouse. As he started down the ramp there floated up from behind him the cry, "KEEB'Y VAAAAALYA!" and the watchers from a minion planets rose and clamored.

THE MAN DOORS SAID h.e.l.lO TO.

I was all alone at the end of the bar when he came in and I heard it distinctly: "h.e.l.lo-o!"

I froze. Go away. But he wasn't talking to me. In fact he wasn't talking to anybody unless he was two midgets. Which was possible, I noted apathetically as he receded down the bar. He was about nine feet tall and dressed by Goodwill Industries.

I went back to trying to decide whether I was suffering more here than if I were someplace else.

Here was a ticky grill in a part of town I'd never seen before and didn't etcetera. It had the advantage that none of my, aaugh, friends was apt to come in. On the other hand several hours here had yielded no help at all. None.

There was the problem of taking a leak before leaving. When I stood up I found my legs had been there too long. They kind of floated me at a tall apparition halfway down the bar, but I managed to veer into the can.

The can door pushed open again behind me and I heard a gutsy chuckle: "Hiya." Mister Tall came through. Oh, no. I concentrated on my image as the most dangerous slightly paralyzed guy five feet six in the world and finished my business fast. When I left I noticed the door creaked a little. It definitely did not speak English.

I had to stop to blow my nose and he came out. The door said briskly, "Ciao."

It had to be some ventriloquist gig. As he went by I saw him tap the next door, the one with the female thing on it.

"Hi there," it murmured. The door said it.

Without meaning to I looked at his eyes. He didn't seem to be two midgets.

"I heard that."He shrugged.

"It's a friendly city."

"Yo," I shuddered.

"Doors." He shook his head and gestured at the bartender. We seemed to be sitting down again.

"Ever think about doors? Zam, bang, hit, hit, all day long. Very little empathy."

"Hit, hit." I touched the cool gla.s.s to my forehead. A friendly city. A razorblade pizza, the day I'd been through. Pete, my so-called agent. Hallee, my so-called girl. Mr. McFarland. I was bleeding into my socks.

"Take bus doors," the large weirdo was saying. "Or subway doors, it's pitiful the beating they take."

This was better than thinking about Mr. McFarland but not very. "I admit I never thought about it from the doors' viewpoint. One of them clipped me yesterday. In the ankle."

"Alienated." He sighed. "Hard to blame them."

The bartender seemed to have opened a slightly better brand. My door-loving acquaintance was doing something elaborate with a thimble on his keychain. I squinted into the bar mirror FBI-style and saw his hand slide under his limp lapels and come out empty. Our eyes met.

"You're pouring gibsons into your pocket."

"Ordinarily I don't let people see me do that." He grinned tentatively.

"I saw it. Samples. Some kind of inspector?"

"Oh no." He laughed bashful-like. "It's this housing shortage, you know. It's no joke."

"Fierce," I agreed.

"Too right." He had this proud, shy look. A clown. "They're a great bunch of kids. You have no concept how hard it is for girls to find a place to live in this city. I mean like a decent place." He shrugged and the suit sort of billowed around his struts. "It isn't as though I don't have plenty of room."

What a clown. But it was still better than the Pete-Hallee-Mr. McFarland segue.

"You're telling me you have girls living in your clothes?"

He nodded, glancing around.

"Watch," he smiled. He selected a teeny kernel of popcorn and held it up beside his Misterogers tie.

A little pink thing about as long as a guppy whipped out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the popcorn back into his coat. I saw it clearly. A perfect girl's arm. But perfect, not like those things that pop out of boxes. I couldn't help setting myself up for the pitch.

"Swear the fingers moved."

"Well, of course."

"Let's see the rest of her."

"Ah, they're doing their nails and you know. The stuff girls do at night."

"They? How many have you?"

"There are six on the lease," he said seriously. "The others aren't home yet."

"Oh? Where do they go?"

"Working. What else?" He gave me a sharp look. "Girls in the city, you know it's rough. I helped them over a couple of months before they connected, but we're all square now."

"Connected?"

"Why, sure." He lowered his voice confidentially. "Model agencies. Heavy demand for small people. You know those ads where some little girl is standing by a big bottle? Compact cars. Campers.

Makes things look roomy. You probably saw them in those 747 jet commercials."

"That figures," I admitted. The new brand seemed to be helping. My condominium friend carefullycut a morsel of onion into his next thimble of gibsons.

"Going to get stoned in there," I warned him.

"Ah, they're sweet kids. They want some to keep for the others."

I watched the little arm zip out again. Believe it, the nails looked gold now. I started to say something dirty and then changed it.

"How do they make out? I mean, you don't see many guys five inches high."

"You don't?" He sounded surprised. "Oh lord, I don't pry. Girls in the city, you know. Lot of them have friends back home most likely."

My gla.s.s kind of slipped then and the scene flowed into a series of hold shots in which my wallet wouldn't come out and he was boosting my arm and saying, "There's some eats down the way." I was working up to resent that when I noticed we were going out.

The door muttered to him as we went through.

"Thanks." He fixed his zipper. "It's a friendly city."

A blast of cold dark smog made me concentrate on my stomach. We floated along.

"Wait." We were at a corner. My high-rise companion was sorting through his change. He picked out a half-dollar, reached up and laid it on a ledge of the brick wall.

"Borrowed it last week," he explained as we crossed the street.

"Who leaves money on buildings?"

"Well, I don't know who exactly. Tall people's bank, you know. Streets with two r's in them.

Comes in handy." He thought a minute. "Isn't there one for short people?"

"Not to my knowledge." Cool look. The scene was stabilizing, I could make out the next street sign: Harrison.

"Try here," I told him.

"Oh, I have all I need now."

"It has two r's. Show me."

He went to the brownstone ledge and stretched up. His fingers came back holding a dime.

"Pigeons," he said apologetically, cleaning his hand. He started to put the dime back and said, "Hey."

He unfolded a note and showed it to me. One wavery little word in pencil: "Help."

"I know, the windows write letters to you."

"Don't be ridiculous." He frowned at the side of the old walk-up. "Human people write notes. Real young or real old," he muttered. "Look up there. Somebody feeds birds."

Without another word we dashed around the corner to the-front entrance and up the stoop.

"That's locked," I warned him. But we seemed to be going inside. As I pa.s.sed the door it said excitedly, "When's the inaugural?"

"Some of those old fellows get muddled," he commented over his shoulder, going upstairs like a helicopter. I couldn't imagine why I was cantering after him. I caught him on the third landing.

"Fourth from the corner... second door. Here."

He knocked. Nothing happened.

"h.e.l.lo?"

He knocked again. Something very faint pattered inside.

"Wh-who?"

"I found your note," he called. "We came as fast as we could."

A chain rattled and a c.h.i.n.k appeared. He held up the note.The door opened another inch and I saw a small fist over a lot of collarbones. She was one of those waifs that look as if any clothes are too big for them. Blue temples. Nothing hair. One big naked eye you could stumble into and drown yourself.

She let go her coat and quick put gla.s.ses over those naked eyes.

"Oh, that was silly of me," she said, very dignified from about the level of his belt.

"I'm not so sure, ma'am." He frowned over her into the room. "Would you mind if we looked around?"

I was breaking up at my stupid two-story friend thinking some woman in this city would invite strange males into her place, when I noticed we were in the middle of her bedroom.

What a freezer. One dim light, one foldbed, one fungus carpet, one big wardrobe, one chair. Sure enough, a box of birdseed by the window. But no TV or radio, no tapes, no book by the chair, nothing. I had the idea she'd been sitting there in her coat under that dun bulb for a month.

My impulsive companion was looking over everything in silence. He sniffed. Then he walked over and slapped the big wardrobe.

Surprisingly, the light went bright. He sniffed again. Then he grabbed the wardrobe by both sides and wrestled it, boom, sc.r.a.pe, away from the wall. It was a monster-house, dark wood with claw feet and a carved bat pie on top, or maybe it was a vulture. I couldn't tell which because my friend dived behind it and the light went out.

The chick and I stood gaping at each other in the flashes of a sign outside. He was doing something with a hand torch.

The light came on again and he unfolded himself in a shower of dust and held out a piece of wire. I could smell the scorch.

"Rubbed the insulation off against the plug," he said. "That thing has paper backing, too. About ready to go up."

He horsed the wardrobe back and stood squinting at it. Then he hauled off and gave it a thundering kick. We jumped. The wardrobe's bottom drawers sucked in and the piece kind of stood to attention.

"That'll straighten it out for a day or so, ma'am. First thing in the morning you go find another place to live. Time to eat now."