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were sensitized to her tongue, rough as a cat’s.
    I’m wired to a test set fully as powerful as the costume Jain’ll wear later—just not as exotic. I slide a track control forward until it reaches the five-position on a scale calibrated to one hundred.
    “Five?” the tech says.
    “Reading’s dead-on. Give me a few more tracks.”
    I comply. She kisses me with lips and tongue, working down across my belly.
    “A little higher, please.”
    I push the tracks to fifteen.
    “You’re really in a mood, Rob.”
    “So what do you want me to think?” I say.
    “Jesus,” says the tech. “You ought to be performing. The crowd would love it.”
    “They pay Jain. She’s the star.” I tried to get on top; she wouldn’t let me. A moment later it didn’t matter.
    “Did you just push the board to thirty?” The tech’s voice sounds strange.
    “No. Did you read that?”
    “Negative, but for a moment it felt like it.” He pauses. “You’re not allowing your emotional life to get in the way of your work, are you?”
    “Screw off,” I answer. “None of your business.”
    “No threats,” says the tech. “Just a suggestion.”
    “Stick it.”
    “Okay, okay. She’s a lovely girl, Rob. And like you say, she’s the star.”
    “I know.”
    “Fine. Feed me another five tracks, Rob; broad spectrum this time.”
    I do so and the tech is satisfied with the results. “That ought to do it,” he says. “I’ll get back to you later.” He breaks off the circuit. All checks are done; there’s nothing now on the circuits but a background scratch like insects climbing over old newspapers. She will not allow me to be exhausted for long.
    Noisily, the crowd is starting to file into the Arena.
    I wait for the concert.
    6
    There’s never before been a stim star of the magnitude of Jain Snow. Yet somehow the concert tonight fails. Somewhere the chemistry goes wrong. The faces out there are as always—yet somehow they are not involved. They care, but not enough.
    I don’t think the fault’s in Jain. I detect no significant difference from other concerts. Her skin still tantalizes the audience as nakedly, only occasionally obscured by the cloudy metal mesh that transforms her entire body into a single antenna. I’ve been there when she’s performed a hell of a lot better, maybe, but I’ve also seen her perform worse and still come off the stage happy.
    It isn’t Moog Indigo; they’re laying down the sound and light patterns behind Jain as expertly as always.
    Maybe it’s me, but I don’t think I’m handling the stim console badly. If I were, the nameless tech would be on my ass over the com circuit.
    Jain goes into her final number. It does not work. The audience is enthusiastic and they want an encore, but that’s just it: they shouldn’t want one. They shouldn’t need one.
    She comes off the stage crying. I touch her arm as she walks past my console. Jain stops and rubs her eyes and asks me if I’ll go back to the hotel with her.
    7
    It seems like the first time I was in Jain Snow’s bed. Jain keeps the room dark and says nothing as we go through the positions. Her breathing grows a little ragged; that is all. And yet she is more demanding of me than ever before.
    When it’s done, she holds me close and very tightly. Her rate of breathing slows and becomes regular. I wonder if she is asleep.
    “Hey,” I say.
    “What?” She slurs the word sleepily.
    “I’m sorry about tonight.”
    “ . . . Not your fault.”
    “I love you very much.”
    She rolls to face me. “Huh?”
    “I love you.”
    “No, babe. Don’t say that.”
    “It’s true,” I say.
    “Won’t work.”
    ”Doesn’t matter,” I say.
    “It can’t work.”
    I know I don’t have any right to feel this, but I’m pissed, and so I move away in the bed. “I don’t care.” The first time: “Such a goddamned adolescent, Rob.”
    After a while, she says, “Robbie, I’m cold,” and so I move back to her and hold her and say