Times at the front desk of the hotel. He must have—"

A scream and a crash of dishes announced Wyrdrune's return as he materialized

on

top of one of the tables next to them. A woman jumped up with a yell, her

white

wine all over the front of her dress.

"Albert!" she wailed.

"Young man, will you kindly keep your bloody hands off my wife's busom?" said

the woman's husband, going red in the face.

"I—oh!" Wyrdrune jerked back his hands. "No, wait, you see, I was only

wiping..." Without thinking, he wiped her chest again to demonstrate.

"Albert! He's doing it again!"

"I—what? No! I was only—"

"Right! That does it!" stormed the woman's husband, and he punched Wyrdrune

in

the jaw.

Wyrdrune staggered backward into a waiter who was carrying a tray with

several

pitchers of beer on it. The beer went flying, soaking down a tableful of

rugby

players, one of whom grabbed the hapless waiter and threw him across another

table at which a group of tourists from Texas were seated, and they were in a

surly mood to begin with. Meanwhile Kira had jumped out of her chair and

decked

the man who had punched Wyrdrune. He fell back into a table at which some

musicians were seated, knocking over their pints and giving them an excellent

excuse to start pounding on anyone who was wearing a suit, which happened to

include some off-duty policemen. The policemen went after the musicians, the

rugby players went after the policemen, and the Texans went after everybody.

Wyrdrune got up off the floor and lurched back to their table, ducking

beneath

flying furniture and glassware. "You think maybe we should leave?" he said.

"That would seem politic," said Makepeace, turning his head in time to see a

glass pitcher come binding at his face. He raised his eyebrows, held up his

index finger in an admonitory gesture, and the pitcher froze in midair, about

four inches from his face. He pushed himself back from the table, got up,

cleared his throat, and said, "Okay." The pitcher resumed its momentum and

crashed against the wall.

Wyrdrune gave nun a strange look. Kira was busy punching one of the Texans,

who

couldn't seem to understand that he was supposed to lie down if he was

unconscious. Jacqueline flowed gracefully through the donnybrook without so

much

as losing the ash on her French cigarette. She got only as far as the door,

however, before the bobbies came swarming in and turned her around as they

swept

down upon combatants and innocent bystanders alike, figuring they'd sort the

whole mess out after they had saved what little furniture was left. Kira

smashed