"Very interesting and doubtless enjoyable," Condemeign said, and glanced at his wristwatch. "But I am afraid...."
The young man who was fair-haired and had a long, dissipated face that verged on the degenerate, smirked.
"Nonsense, you have plenty of time. There's always plenty of time on Nepenthe. You can't let yourself think any other way."
Condemeign pulled away gently, but the other seized him by the arm.
"Look here," he said, and grinned foolishly. "You might as well stay here. How do you know all this isn't part of your particular exit?" He glanced swiftly around and pointed. "See, there and there. Belted and sworded. Maybe they're intended to pick a quarrel with you. Personally I'd hate to go that way. It's heroic, but I just can't stand the touch of cold steel." He reeled a little and Condemeign put out a steadying hand. "Thanks, old chap. I didn't realize I'd had a bit too much."
Some revelers tore by, scattering bits of streamers and winy breaths. A cold breeze blew suddenly through one of the ventilators and Condemeign, half-carrying the other, went rigid. Death seemed at his elbow, jerking and pulling and being mulishly obstinate about staying. Death? His spine abruptly became a rod of ice. Where did it lie for him? In that shiny door knob, quivering in immobility under the fluorescents with frying voltage?
Was it a frozen Borgia smirk on some papier mache mask? Or did it leer at him from the folds of a tunic that was visibly unable to perform its office of hiding a pair of magnificent breasts? The weight in his arms grew leaden. Could death, he thought, be approaching, lanced and ready-levelled in the fine black eyes of the old man who was approaching, tottering and rubbing his aged hands together. The ancient wreck passed and Condemeign suddenly felt he could breathe.
A girl came striding out of a giggling group. She paused as Condemeign got in her way, hefting his charge to a nearby chair.
"When did it happen?" she asked. Her gray eyes widened.