As Ben Reich glided down the east ramp with Dr. Tate at his side and murder in his pocket, he communicated with his senses in staccatto spurts. The sight of the guests on the floor below… The glitter of uniforms, of dress, of phosphorescent flesh, of beams of pastel light swaying on stilt legs… Tenser, said the Tensor…

The sound of voices, of music, of annunciators, of echoes… Tension, apprehension, and dissension… The wonderful potpourri of flesh and perfume, of food, of wine, of gilt ostentation… Tension, apprehension…

The gilt trappings of death… Of something, by God, which has failed for seventy years… A lost art… As lost as phlebotomy, chirurgery, alchemy… I’ll bring death back. Not the hasty, crazy killing of the psychotic, the brawler… but the normal, deliberate, planned, cold-blooded—

“For God’s sake!” Tate murmured. “Be careful, man. Your murder’s showing.”

Eight, sir; seven, sir…

“That’s better. Here comes one of the peeper secretaries. He screens the guests for crashers. Keep singing.”

A slender, willowy young man, all gush, all cropped golden hair, all violet blouse and silver culottes: “Dr. Tate! Mr. Reich! I’m speechless. Actually. I can’t utter word one. Come in! Come in!”

Six, sir; five, sir…

Maria Beaumont clove through the crowd, arms outstretched, eyes outstretched, naked bosom outstretched… her body transformed by pneumatic surgery into an exagerated East Indian figure with puffed hips, puffed calves and puffed gilt breasts. To Reich she was the painted figurehead of a pornographic ship… the famous Gilt Corpse.

“Ben, darling creature!” She embraced him with pneumatic intensity, contriving to press his hand into her cleavage. “It’s too too wonderful.”

“It’s too too plastic, Maria,” he murmured in her ear.

“Have you found that lost million yet?”

“Just laid hands on it now, dear.”

“Be careful, audacious lover. I’m having every morsel of this divine party recorded.”

Over her shoulder, Reich shot a glance at Tate. Tate shook his head reassuringly.

“Come and meet everybody who’s everybody,” Maria said. She took his arm. “We’ll have ages for ourselves later.”

The lights in the groined vaults overhead changed again and shifted up the spectrum. The costumes changed color. Skin that had glowed with pink nacre now shone with eerie luminescence.

On his left flank, Tate gave the prearranged signal: Danger! Danger! Danger!

Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun…

Maria was introducing another effete, all gush, all cropped copper hair, all fuchsia blouse and Prussian blue culottes.

“Larry Ferar, Ben. My other social secretary. Larry’s been dying to meet you.”

Four, sir; three, sir…

“Mr. Reich! But too thrilled. I can’t utter word one.”

Two, sir; one!

The young man accepted Reich’s smile and moved on. Still circling in convoy, Tate gave Reich a reassuring nod. Again the overhead lights changed. Portions of the guests’ costumes appeared to dissolve. Reich, who had never succumbed to the fashion of wearing ultra-violet windows in his clothes, stood secure in his opaque suit, watching with contempt the quick, roving eyes around him, searching, appraising, comparing, desiring.