Nearly two hundred metas had been invited to help celebrate the triumph of the Remillard brothers on Satsuma. Marc had arranged for the chef of the famous old Rosario resort on Orcas to cater a sumptuous buffet, and an amateur combo of operant musicians, all friends or a.s.sociates of his, was tuning up on the awninged terrace. Hiroshi and Masako went down two flights of stairs to the ground floor and found themselves swept up in a colorful mob.

"To be a correct ancient Samurai woman," Hiroshi whispered to his wife, "you should trail behind me by several respectful steps."

"Jodan desho!" she retorted, snapping open her fan and taking his arm. "There are limits."

Some masqueraders made no attempt to conceal their ident.i.ties, while others had gone to extremes of mystification. Impromptu guessing games, accompanied by a good deal of raucous laughter and shouting, were de rigueur. With no nonoperants present who might be scandalized, the metapsychic partygoers were clearly ready for unrestrained tomfoolery. Historic ethnic dress seemed particularly popular, but there were plenty of traditional North American Halloween costumes as well-witches, wizards, Frankenstein monsters, ballerinas, cartoon animals, comic-book superheroes, pirates, nuns, and clowns. A rotund Falstaff escorted a bangled belly dancer, a top-hatted Marlene Dietrich clone fluttered false eyelashes seductively at a matador, Marie Antoinette simpered through a mask-on-a-stick at a vizarded Sherlock Holmes, a Lakota chief in war paint offered a drink to a demure Wonder Woman, the Mad Hatter cackled at a joke told by a Chinese dragon with a two-meter tail supported by psychokinesis, Achilles and Patroclus strolled together arm in arm, clad in golden Greek armor, and the band-with beaming Shig Morita conducting from the piano-launched into "Stray Cat Strut."

It was a fine autumn evening, not too chilly. As Masako and Hiroshi came out of the house onto the terrace they encountered Lucille Carrier and Denis Remillard. Both wore doctoral academic gowns trimmed with the spruce-green and gold velvet of the School of Metapsychology.

"Komban wa!" said Denis, bowing cheerfully. He had recognized the pair from Satsuma at once. "You two look smashing. Lucille and I opted for just grabbing something out of the closet."

"Shame on you for looking so comfortable," said Hiroshi.

Masako, looking over Lucille's shoulder, suddenly gave an unbelieving gasp. "Good heavens! Can that be Marc in the E16 helmet?" She indicated a bizarre tall figure in white-tie evening dress dancing with a Valkyrie. His head was almost entirely enclosed in a grotesque black CE headpiece with jack-o'-lantern features pasted on.

Lucille shrugged. "Who else? He says he's a high-tech Brom Bones from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I suspect he'll do tricks with the equipment at the shank of the evening."

"And is young Jack also among the masquers?" Hiroshi inquired.

"We haven't found him yet," Denis admitted, "although he's certainly here. That was a fantastic piece of work those two did on your world. As I understand it, Kagoshima Metro is now safe from major tremors for at least fifty Earth years."

"So the Milieu scientists say. We're all very relieved that the largest settlement on our world is finally out of danger." Hiroshi shook his armored head. "I still find it incredible that two human minds could have modified the crust of a planet. Even twenty years ago, such a feat would have been called impossible. Naturally, we cannot expect the two Paramount Grand Masters to come to our rescue regularly, so we're establishing a CE training facility that will emphasize the geophysical applications of metaconcerted creativity. The governments of other worlds suffering crustal instability are helping in its financing and staffing. Okanagon will contribute teaching personnel. Your metaconcert programs, Denis, will be a valued part of the curriculum."

"Utilizing many minds in large-scale CE metaconcert projects will require tweaking the designs about considerably. Jack will be working closely with me for several months in order to make some very necessary modifications." Denis's youthful brow creased in a slight frown. "It's hard to argue with success-but I'm still not altogether certain that artificial augmentation of human brainpower is a good idea, especially in metaconcert. Marc narrowly escaped serious injury in the untested new configuration he and Jack used on your world."

Hiroshi drew in his breath sharply. "I had not realized! That's appalling! Why was nothing said to me?"

"He didn't want to rain on your parade," sighed Lucille.

"Jack was leading the metaconcert and Marc was the focusing agent," Denis said. "The focuser is almost always the one at greatest risk in such a situation because his role is essentially pa.s.sive. Jack called for a certain change in configuration and Marc responded with an unexpected surge of power that temporarily overwhelmed the metaconcert design. The potentiality for dysergism is high enough in bare-brain metaconcert programs using two such extraordinary minds. When such brains are hyperenergized, the hazard becomes acute unless the program is given very fine tuning. Ordinary grandmastercla.s.s minds would not be nearly so much at risk because they can be strictly calibrated and fitted into the design structure. But paramounts are still full of surprises, unfortunately."

"I'm not familiar with the dysergism phenomenon," Hiroshi admitted. "Would it be the opposite of synergism, where the action of the whole is greater than that of the sum of the parts?"

"There's more to it than that," Denis said. "I'd be happy to explain it to you ..."

"By all means!"

Lucille and Masako exchanged resigned glances.

A robot waitron came by with a tray of full champagne flutes and each of them took one. But while the others drank, the iron-masked Samurai regarded his inaccessible beverage with consternation. "I believe that ancient warriors accoutered in armor drank through broken arrow-shafts, which were hollow reeds. I refuse to make a fool of myself drinking champagne through a straw. Wife, kindly help me to remove this confounded mempo at once!"

Masako, Lucille, and Denis burst out laughing. After Hiroshi was freed, he and Denis went off into the garden for a professional discussion while the two women remained on the perimeter of the dance floor.

"I certainly didn't take hours getting dressed in order to spend the evening talking shop," Masako murmured crossly.

Lucille made a sympathetic noise as she finished her champagne and immediately snagged a refill from another robot. "Not when there are so many presentable young men to dance with! ... But let's play the guessing game for a little while first."

They quickly found the First Magnate heaping a plate of hors d'oeuvres at the buffet table, costumed as Zorro and surrounded by a bevy of operant beauties. Adrien Remillard and his wife Cheri Losier-Drake danced by, dressed as Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Anne Remillard, tall and awesome in the scarlet robes of a medieval Catholic cardinal, boogied expertly with Alex Manion, who was got up as the captain of H.M.S. Pinafore. Boom-Boom Laroche, a hulking executioner with a black hood and a hangman's noose tucked into his belt, partnered Vampira-alias Marie Remillard. And then Lucille recognized Uncle Rogi.

"He makes a rather decent Abraham Lincoln," she decided. "But who in the world is he dancing with?"

"Her costume is ... very unusual," Masako said.

That was a gross understatement. Rogi's pet.i.te companion was clad in an impressive silvery outfit that might have been a genuine high-alt.i.tude flight suit-except that it was extravagantly decorated with glittering rhinestones. Even the visored helmet and the mask that covered the lower part of the woman's face shone with faux diamonds.

The "Stray Cat Strut" ended and the dancers applauded.

"There's something rather odd about her aura," Lucille said thoughtfully. "Let's go make nuisances of ourselves and inspect her at close range."

But before the two of them could make a move the music started up again, this time with "Jalousie," and Honest Abe and his scintillating lady tangoed off at a smart pace.

"Drat," muttered Lucille. Then she saw a red-nosed clown cut in on Rogi and take his partner away. The bookseller watched the pair for a few minutes and then retreated in the direction of the bar. At the same moment a strapping Cossack and King Henry VIII asked Masako and Lucille to dance, and they forgot all about Rogi's mysterious companion.

Rogi spotted Kyle Macdonald, inevitably wearing Highland dress, glumly nursing a tumbler of amber liquid on a cedar bench off in the midst of some potted azaleas.

"Well, well! Who let the deadhead in?" Honest Abe chortled. "Don't you know this bash is for h.o.m.o superior only, my good man?" He took a seat beside the fantasy writer, doffed his stovepipe hat, and sampled his own drink.

Kyle grimaced. "Argh. Don't remind me, ye decrepit Canuck rumdum! Ever since we moved back to Earth, Masha's worked me over with the newest tortures of latency therapy. Me! The great champion of normalcy! Would ye believe I'm now cla.s.sed as a minimally operant fa.r.s.ensor? It was either that or get chucked out by Her Nibs all over again ... The woman's d.a.m.n near irresistible in dominatrix mode."

"Serves you right falling for a coercer," Rogi said. "I warned you."

"Just look at the shameless bint!" Kyle pointed out the voluptuous figure of Professor MacGregor-Gawrys, bent over backwards nearly to the floor in a tango dip by a masked Lawrence of Arabia. She wore a black-and-white Erte ball gown of the 1920s, dripping with strings of crystal and jet. Her auburn hair had been frizzed and bound about with a magpie-silk bandeau.

"Devastating beyond belief," Rogi agreed. "Who's the Sheik of Araby?"

"G.o.ddam fewkin' Severin Remillard. Who pinched your popsy?"

"You got me. One of the clowns. Ident.i.ty-fuzzed."

"Weird outfit your bird had on," Kyle commented. "Reminded me of something, but I couldn't put my half-spifflicated finger on it. Who the h.e.l.l is she?"

"You don't want to know." Rogi downed a swig of bourbon.

"Och, there she goes now: Lucy in the Sky with Rhinestones. Queen of the glitz-bikers." Kyle screwed up his craggy face as he attempted to bolster his exiguous, liquor-befuddled farsight. "G.o.d d.a.m.n, I thought that outfit looked familiar! It's a tarted-up Caledonian airfarmer's flying kit, and that means the girl must be my own-"

Using what coercion he could conjure, Rogi socked it to his friend. "Shut up, Kyle!"

The Scotsman nearly fell off the bench. His drink went flying into an adjacent azalea tub. "Hey! Wot th' flamin' h.e.l.l d'ye think-"

Rogi whipped his hand over Kyle's mouth, stifling him. "I'll tell you what's going on if you swear to keep your big haggis-trap shut forever."

"I shwear," Kyle said through Rogi's fingers.

The band played "If the Devil Danced in Empty Pockets, He'd Have a Ball in Mine." Numbers of the partygoers joined Marc Remillard's lead and formed into bouncy, finger-snapping country lines.

"This kind of ch.o.r.eography isn't quite my style," said the clown. "Shall we sit this one out, Diamond Mask?"

"I don't mind."

They made their way off the terrace into the big living room. It was dimly lit with scores of carved pumpkins with candles inside. In one alcove, a noisy variant of spin-the-bottle was being played with an empty champagne magnum. People were conversing in standing groups, sitting on the overstuffed furniture, and lounging on the floor. Pieces of discarded costume were beginning to litter the nooks and corners.

"Would you care for a drink or some munchies?" the clown asked as they pa.s.sed an open bar.

"No thank you. But do have one yourself."

He took a gla.s.s of designer water and ice. "It's pretty noisy in here. Let's go across the hall to the library. It's got a balcony overlooking the sea."

"Perfect."

No one else was in the book-lined sanctum. The balcony doors were open and there were cushioned Woodard chairs waiting outside in the shadows. A cool breeze rustled the giant fir trees that framed the spectacular view.

The clown plopped into one of the metal chairs and his sparkling companion took a seat more gracefully. The dark visor of her ornate helmet was up, but her face was entirely concealed except for the hazel eyes. The clown wore traditional whiteface with a broadly drawn smile and a red rubber ball for a nose. His suit was white with big colored polka dots and he had a pleated ruff around his neck. His multicolored fright wig was topped with a floppy pointed hat.

"You're a great dancer," he said. "Hope I didn't step on your toes too often. I don't go to very many parties. A bit of a workaholic, I'm afraid." He had his mind-screen up, but it was only casually constructed and she had no difficulty sliding through it.

"You're very light on your feet," she said. "What kind of work do you do?" She took special care in fashioning the probe, holding it ready until the appropriate moment.

"A little of this, a little of that. I'm sort of an apprentice in the family sweatshop. Boring stuff. Money, power, interstellar commercial intrigue ..."

She laughed. "I don't suppose you want to dispense with the games and tell me your name?"

"Why, sure! Just as soon as you show me your face, Diamond Mask."

"Not yet. I'm surprised you can't see it already with your deepsight."

Hunching over his knees, he leaned closer to her, squinting. "Oof! Gimme a break. You're hiding behind the Great Wall of China!" Shaking his head, he fell back into his seat and pretended to fan his brow. "That's what I call a real face-blanking headscreen! What are you-an axe-murderer on the lam? Or some famous Planetary Dirigent come slumming?"

She slid the probe home and began to weave the bypa.s.s structure.

"I'm only a college student," she said. "Math and physics. Boring .. . like your old family business, Mister Bozo the Clown."

There! Now she could begin the ream while they nattered on, making idiotic boy-meets-girl small talk. She would be able to ask him questions as well as extract data from his memories, just as she had done with the members of the Dynasty, and he would never suspect.

"I'll bet you're lovely behind that mask, little Diamond." He grinned hopefully. "Come on. Give us a peek."

"Oh, no. Not yet. Tell me more about yourself first. Do you know Marc Remillard well? This house of his is really a show-place, isn't it?"

"Kind of ostentatious, if you ask me." The clown waved a hand in lofty dismissal. "I've found that people who need to surround themselves with excessive amounts of material goods are-"

Show me your metapsychic complexus.

[Profoundly esoteric image.]

What is your name?

Jon Paul Kendall Remillard.

How old are you?

Twenty.

Where do you live?

My domicile of record is 4480 Lawai Beach Road, Poipu, Kauai, Hawaii. I am not often in residence there.

What is your current occupation?

I am a Magnate of the Concilium, a member of the Panpolity Unification Directorate, an occasional partic.i.p.ant in academic research concerning the design of metaconcert programs, and a codeveloper of cerebroenergetic equipment with my older brother Marc.

Are you partic.i.p.ating actively in the search for the criminals known as Fury and Hydra?

Not at the present time.

In your opinion, which members of the Remillard Dynasty are most likely to harbor the ent.i.ty called Fury within themselves? List them in order of probability and include Marc and Uncle Rogi in your calculations as well.

1. Marc 4. Severin 7. Philip 2. Anne 5. Adrien 8. Catherine 3. Paul 6. Maurice 9. Rogi

Give me the complete background information that leads you to your conclusions.

[Data.]

Do you know a person called Clinton Wolfe Alvarez, a resident of the planet Okanagon, who serves as an executive a.s.sistant on the staff of Dirigent Patricia Castellane?

No.

Have you ever personally encountered this particular metaconcert configuration? [Data.]

No.

Why did you attempt to farspeak the child Dorothea Mary Macdonald at her home on Caledonia?

I was curious about her. I had been told of her existence by [untranslatable Lylmik name], who indicated that she was potentially a mind of the paramount grandmaster-cla.s.s, like me. I was lonely. I hoped we might become friends. I still do.

Why do members of your family call you by the nickname Jack the Bodiless?

Because my normal physical form is that of a disembodied brain. This body and certain others I wear are metacreative constructs.

!!! Who ... knows about this outside of your family?