* * * Brett followed him. They turned down a side street, pushed through the door of a dingy cafe. It banged behind them. There were tables, stools at a bar, a dusty juke box. They took seats at a table. The red-head groped under the table, pulled off a shoe, hammered it against the wall. He cocked his head, listening. The silence was absolute. He hammered again. There was a clash of crockery from beyond the kitchen door. "Now don't say anything," the red-head said. He eyed the door behind the counter expectantly. It flew open. A girl with red cheeks and untidy hair, dressed in a green waitress' uniform appeared, swept up to the table, pad and pencil in hand. "Coffee and a ham sandwich," said the red-head. Brett said nothing. The girl glanced at him briefly, jotted hastily, whisked away. "I saw them here the first day," the red-head said. "It was a piece of luck. I saw how the Gels started it up. They were big ones--not like the tidiers-up. As soon as they were finished, I came in and tried the same thing. It worked. I used the golem's lines--" "I don't know what you're talking about," Brett said. "I'm going to ask that girl--" "Don't say anything to her; it might spoil everything. The whole sequence might collapse; or it might call the Gels. I'm not sure. You can have the food when it comes back with it." "Why do you say 'when "it" comes back'?" "Ah." He looked at Brett strangely. "I'll show you." Brett could smell food now. His mouth watered. He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours. "Care, that's the thing," the red-head said. "Move quiet, and stay out of sight, and you can live like a County Duke. Food's the hardest, but here--" The red-cheeked girl reappeared, a tray balanced on one arm, a heavy cup and saucer in the other hand. She clattered them down on the table. "Took you long enough," the red-head said. The girl sniffed, opened her mouth to speak--and the red-head darted out a stiff finger, jabbed her under the ribs. She stood, mouth open, frozen. Brett half rose. "He's crazy, miss," he said. "Please accept--" "Don't waste your breath." Brett's host was looking at him triumphantly. "Why do I call it 'it'?" He stood up, reached out and undid the top buttons of the green uniform. The waitress stood, leaning slightly forward, unmoving. The blouse fell open, exposing round white breasts--unadorned, blind. "A doll," said the red-head. "A puppet; a golem." * * * Brett stared at her, the damp curls at her temple, the tip of her tongue behind her teeth, the tiny red veins in her round cheeks, and the white skin curving ... "That's a quick way to tell 'em," said the red-head. "The teat is smooth." He rebuttoned the uniform, then jabbed again at the girl's ribs. She straightened, patted her hair. "No doubt a gentleman like you is used to better," she said carelessly. She went away. "I'm Awalawon Dhuva," the red-head said. "My name's Brett Hale." Brett took a bite of the sandwich.