She adjusted one of his lapels as if she were his prom date. “You smell quite nice, as a matter of fact.”

“The same thing that attracted you. I'm sure it didn't escape your attention that these displays are the property of Oceanus.”

“That's the main reason we're here.” Therri glanced off to the side of the rotunda, where Ben Nighthawk stood. He looked uneasy in his black tuxedo, unsure of what to do with his hands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She waved him over.

“You remember Ben,” Therri said.

'Good to see you again,“ Austin said, shaking hands. ”Nice tux.“ 'Thanks,” Nighthawk said, without enthusiasm. “It's rented.” He glanced around at the other guests. “I'm a little out of my element.” “Don't worry,” Austin said. “Most of the people who come to these receptions are here for the food and the gossip.”

“Ben agreed to escort me,” Therri said. “Marcus thought Ben's memory might be jogged by something he saw.” “Has it been?”

“Not yet,” Therri said. “What about you? Have you learned any- thing?”

“Yes,” he said with a tight smile. “I've learned that you don't lis- ten to warnings of possible danger.”

“That's ancient history,” Therri said, like someone trying to be patient with an annoying child. Austin took in the challenging gaze and decided he was wasting his breath trying to change her mind.

“I'm on my way outside to see the dogsled races,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

“Thank you,” she said, hooking her arm in Nighthawk's. “We were headed that way ourselves.”

A guide directed them outside. Traffic on Madison Drive had been stopped to allow spectators to cross to the National Mall. It was a beautiful night. Lit by floodlights, the red sandstone turrets of the Smithsonian Castle were clearly visible across the eight-hundred- foot width of greensward. Toward the Potomac, the plain white spike of the Washington Monument soared into the night sky.

A large section of open grass had been marked off with yellow po- lice tape and was brightly illuminated by portable lights. Inside the enclosure, orange pylons were arranged in a rectangle. Hundreds of reception guests in evening attire, and passersby attracted by the lights and crowd, ringed the perimeter. A few National Park Service uniforms could be seen. From the other side of the racecourse, where several trucks were lined up, came a sound like a kennel at feeding time. Then the excited yelps and barks were drowned out by a male voice on the public address system.