Barch looked away. 'I don't know… Yes, I do too.'
'Then how should I dress myself?'
He looked sidewise at her. 'Are you serious?'
'Of course. Where is this Sunset Boulevard?'
'I could take you,' said Barch thoughtfully.
'That would be very helpful.'
Barch calculated. 'How will we get there?'
'In the air-boat. How else?'
'Your father won't kick?'
'Kick?'
'Object?'
'Of course not.' She added soberly, 'You must understand, I possibly intend to make anthropology my career.' Barch nodded. 'Very well, that's a date.'
'But what sort of costume must I wear?'
'Anything that covers you from shoulder to knee. If you combed your hair back I suppose you could pass for platinum blonde…'
Darran came in while Barch was knotting his tie. 'Where do you think you're going? Why the preparations?'
'Got a date with the old man's daughter.'
Darran sat down. 'So? Hopscotch with Spedz maybe, along the north terrace?'
'No, sir. Catch-as-catch-can with the cute one, up to San Francisco.'
Darran leaned back limply. 'This is fantastic.'
'Not when you get the background. She's interested in picturesque native customs; she thinks she's going to Los Angeles to see a human sacrifice, or a Dionysian fertility rite.'
Darran sighed. 'What some guys won't do to get a date… And where are you taking her? Or is she taking you?'
'Darned if I know. She'd probably enjoy the Embarcadero saloons or Chutes at the Beach.' He made a wry face. 'I have my pride too.'
'She'd be bored at the Fairmont.'
'I should think so. No blood-letting, no colorful rituals.'
'There's always Hambone Kelly's.'
'True,' said Barch. 'There's always Hambone Kelly's.' He buttoned his jacket. 'Well, here I go.'
'Good luck,' said Darran. 'Don't get in any trouble.'
Barch turned him a cool stare. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Nothing,' said Darran mildly. 'You're a truculent son-of-a-gun. You must have something on your mind.'
Barch pushed out upon the terrace and stood looking into the night. His hands were clammy and tense; Darran had hit close to the truth. This was like going out on the first date of his life, only more so.
He walked slowly around the terrace, stopped near the main dome. Inside were Lekthwans, from a far planet; did they expect him to knock on the door, call for the girl? Or should he wait outside until she appeared? He made an angry sound through his teeth; where was his self-respect? He was as good as any of them; this was Earth, by God, they'd go by Earth customs.
He strode belligerently up to the dome, then came to a halt. Knock, certainly. Or ring a bell. But where?
Light glimmered through the opacity; Barch backed away. Komeitk Lelianr came quickly out upon the terrace, followed by Markel and Sia Spedz running like a terrier.
Markel spoke in Lekthwan. 'I imagine you'll be disappointed. Of course there's no reason why you shouldn't investigate.'
Sia Spedz said, 'I'd like to go too.'
'One anthropologist in the family is enough,' said Markel. He turned to Barch. 'See that she does nothing to get into trouble, Roy.'
'Tsk.' Komeitk Lelianr sauntered down the terrace. 'Come, Roy.'
Barch, mustered his dignity, followed to where the air-boat floated.
Komeitk Lelianr ducked into the air-boat, Barch followed She wore a white and black one-piece suit, like a harlequin costume. She would be conspicuous, but would not necessarily draw a crowd.
Inside the boat floated a silver ball pierced by a black rod. Komeitk Lelianr took the ball; the car moved off into the sky. 'Now,' said she, 'which way?'
The first thing, thought Barch, was to get the affair on its proper footing. 'Show me how to run this contraption.'
She turned her head, her eyebrows raised in surprise. For a moment Barch thought she might politely ignore him; then she handed him the silver ball. 'This'- she touched the black rod-'represents the perpendicular axis of the boat. Tilt the ball, the boat tilts. Move the ball up, you initiate a cumulative upward acceleration, which can only be countered by moving the ball down. The black rod is the speed control. The farther you depress it, the faster you go. To brake, you push from below.'
'That's simple enough. Where's the height indicator?'
'There. She pointed to a series of angular black shapes moving along a pale gray band. 'This is both the altimeter and the speed indicator. The green circle in the middle represents the boat. The outline of the shadow depicts the profile of the land directly ahead. The lower you fly, the larger becomes the green circle. The green touches the black when the boat touches ground.'
Barch nodded. 'It seems easy enough.'
She watched intently for a moment or two, then asked, 'Where are you heading?'
'We're going to a place called Hambone Kelly's across the bay from San Francisco. Or would you prefer a more decorous approach to Earth night-life?'
'I suppose I must rely upon your judgment as to what might interest me.'
'I don't know much about your frame of mind. Tell me something, how old are you?'
'Fifty-two.' At Barch's surprised glance, she explained. 'That would be twenty of your years.'
'Your name is hard to pronounce,' said Barch. 'I'll call you 'Ellen.''
In the dark he could not see the expression of her face. 'Whatever is convenient for you.'
Hills brought angular shapes to the altimeter band.
A long carpet of light spread out below: San Leandro, Oakland, Berkeley. Barch flew a thousand feet over the shore of the bay, slanted down over San Pablo Avenue. 'I think there's a vacant lot where we can leave the boat. Yes, there.'
He set the car down behind a row of eucalyptus trees. 'Now we start.'
From Hambone Kelly's, music came loud and strong to the street.
'Interesting music. The people do interpretative dancing, I suppose, with sexual symbolism,' said Komeitk Lelianr.
'Well, I don't know about that. It's energetic dancing, at least. But I really brought you to hear the music-a special kind of music that may be new to you.'
She listened. 'Eight-part polyphony, is it not?'
Barch started at her. 'There's only seven pieces in the band.'
'There's one-a tinkling kind of harp that's playing in two parts.'
'Oh, the piano.' Barch suddenly felt glum. 'Let's go in.'
He led her to a dim table. On a raised stage stood seven men playing trumpet, trombone, clarinet, piano, drums, banjo, and brass bass. They played with brilliant emphasis; music poured forth clear and impelling.
Barch said close to Komeitk Lelianr's ear, 'This is the Yerba Buena Jazz Band. They're playing a tune called
'It sounds not at all weary.'
'No, quite the reverse.' Barch turned to watch the band.
Music came in a tide, the trumpet ringing like a bar of pure energy; the trombone dark, rough, hoarse; the clarinet a fiery bird. There came the final chatter and smash of traps, then the sigh of release from the audience, deep from the stomach, the chest, the throat.
