"When I was a kid I liked to swing on fence-gates. Once, the hinges broke. I skinned my knee."
Her body was trembling. Some of it got into her voice. "It could happen again."
He met the challenge of her. She was bright steel, drawn to repel lurking enemies.
"I have another knee," he said, grinning. "But yours are too nice to bark up. Where's the back door?"
The music was Venusian, a swaying, sensuous thing of weirdest melodies and off-beat rhythms. Plucked and bowed strings blended with wailing flutes and an exotic tympany to produce music formed of passion and movement. Tod Denver and Darbor threaded their way through stiffly-paired swaying couples toward the invisible door at the rear.
"I hope you don't mind scar tissue on your toes," he murmured, bending his cheek in impulsive caress. He wished that he were nineteen again and could still dream. Twenty-seven seemed so aged and battered and cynical. And dreams can become nightmares.
They were near the door.
"Champagne tastes like vinegar if it's too cold," she replied. "My mouth is puckery and tastes like swill. I hope it's the blank champagne. Maybe I'm scared."
They dropped pretense and bolted for the door.
In the alley, they huddled among rubbish and garbage cans because the shadows lay thicker there.