'You all right?' Hanes asked.
Paul nodded and looked down at the man in the aisle. 'Is he . . .' The words trailed off as the odor of scorched flesh reached his nostrils. He felt something turn over in his stomach.
6_________________William Greenleaf
Hanes took Paul's arm and pulled him away from the body. 'Go back with Dorland. I'll take care of things out here.'
Paul didn't argue. His knee was beginning to cry for attention by the time he had gone around the side of the stage and down the short passageway that led to the dressing room. Fastened to the door was a metal plate with simple black lettering: DORLAND AVERY.
Steph Hendrikson stood just inside. He turned as Paul came in, his hand going automatically to the handle of his side arm, then moving away when he saw who it was.
'Where's Dorland?' Paul asked.
'Changing.' Hendrikson waved a hand toward the partitioned area at the back of the room. His eyes remained on Paul. 'I don't know what happened out there, Mr. Jurick. I should've spotted that guy. Mr. Avery's show was so ... well . . .' His shoulders moved in a slight shrug.
'We'll talk about it later,' Paul said. One of Jeffrey Hanes's greatest problems in maintaining security around Dorland Avery was that the mesmerizing effects of Dorland's performance often interfered with the alert watchfulness that was needed by the security men. The men were supposed to guard against getting too caught up in Dorland's show, but that required a mental discipline that not everyone possessed. Even Paul often felt himself sinking into the music and colors. It would be up to Hanes to decide if Steph
Hendrikson would be able to do his job well enough to remain a part of the security team. 'Wait outside. Don't let anyone in but Jeffrey.' Hendrikson nodded and left the room. Paul
crossed to the utility counter to pour himself a cup of hot jo. The dressing room was large and luxurious, with a sofa and several deep-cushioned chairs grouped around an entertainment console in one
CLARION 17
corner, and an interstream commset in another. The carpet was thick and white. The dressing area was separated from the lounge area by the only piece of dark furniture in the room—a large, freestanding wooden wardrobe.
'Steph told me what happened.'
Paul turned from the counter as Dorland came around the wardrobe. He had exchanged the white jumpsuit for the sort of clothing he usually wore offstage—dark slacks and a faded blue shirt.
'Are you all right?' he asked.
'Sure.' Paul sat down in one of the cushioned chairs, took a sip ofjo and realized the cup was shaking so much he nearly slopped the hot liquid over his hand. He put the cup carefully on a low table beside him.
'Why were you limping?' Dorland asked.
'Banged my leg on something. It isn't serious.'
'Make sure you have somebody look at it.'
'Yes, Mother.'
'Do you think this had anything to do with the call we got?'
'Presumably.' Something about the way Dorland asked the question made Paul look at him more closely. Dorland's face was still pale, but his eyes were sharp and direct, and Paul knew the last vestiges of the player's trance had left him. 'Do you have any idea why someone would try to kill you?'
'Of course not.' Dorland turned away abruptly and went to the window. He pressed the wall stud to clear it and looked out at the falling dusk.
'Unhappy fan, I suppose.'
'He didn't look like a fan.' Paul thought about the cold blue eyes. 'What he did was no impulse.' The door slid open to admit Jeffrey Hanes. He did not look happy.
