Lord of the Fantastic: Stories in Honor of Roger Zelazny

ARROYO DE ORO PATI NAGLE

He was beautiful. An angel’s face—soft brown hair framing chiseled cheeks, skin so fair it seemed never to have seen the sun, and the sweetest almost-smile on his lips—that was my first deader.

He was found at 10:47 a.m. in one of the less-frequented hallways of the Rainbow Man Hotel and Casino, right near the hologram of the Blue Corn Maiden. See, every morning at 11:00 the Maiden speaks—a recorded blurb about her role in pueblo religion—which is what the tourists who found him came to hear. But I doubt they caught a word.

By the time I got there it was almost 11:30. I left the field office as soon as the call came in, but downtown Albuquerque is a long way from “Arroyo de Oro.” That’s what they call the strip. It runs right up the Sandia Reservation on the north edge of town, and it rivals Las Vegas for glitz.

I got on the freeway and headed north, feeling pretty unhappy about the assignment. I am not a cloak and dagger kind of girl. Numbers I can do; my background is in accounting, and I naturally expected my job with the FBI would entail investigating bank fraud and money laundering and that sort of thing. When they sent me to New Mexico after graduation I figured I might also have to handle some shady across-the-border deals, but murder investigations I was not expecting. This murder, however, had taken place on the reservation and was therefore under Federal jurisdiction, so I got tapped to help check it out.

The directions said to take the Tramway Exit and turn toward the mountains. Serious mountains, too—bare granite jutting up over the city—pretty stark for a girl used to wheat fields and rolling green hills. There was not much green here to speak of at all, and as if it wasn’t enough that the land was brown, these people had to make most of their buildings brown, too. I had been in town all of two days, and was already wondering how soon I could transfer back east.

I reached the exit, turned toward this gigantic arch, all neon, that said “Welcome to Arroyo de Sandia,” and drove under it. It was like entering another world.

Hotels lined the street, neon-traced towers crowding right up to the sidewalks, flashing and glittering even in midday. Hotel Sandia, Hotel Bien-Mur, Hotel Kokopeli, each with its own casino. Traffic crawled, blocked by herds of tourists on foot walking up and down in sneakers and shorts with big plastic cups in their hands. More tourists in rented cars sat gawking at the glitz and, OK, I did a little gawking myself, especially when I got to the Rainbow Man. Big, flashy entrance with a gigantic neon figure on the hotel tower above it. It was a kachina; I had learned that much, having seen bunches of kachina dolls in the airport.

Kachinas are sort of minor deities, only not exactly. This one’s head was a mask, with black rectangles for eyes and some feathers and horns and things. The feet were pretty normal, but the body between them arced in an enormous rainbow that put head and feet on the same level. Gorgeous. I stared at it too long. The red Camaro behind me had to lean on his horn before I realized the light had changed.

I parked on a side street that was a box canyon of slab-sided casinos. All the glitz was out front on the Arroyo. I hurried back toward Rainbow Man’s entrance and went into what I thought was the lobby, but it turned out to be the casino, and I immediately got lost. The place was a labyrinth; big rooms full of light and color and this incessant circus music. Took me a few minutes to realize it was the slot machines. Man, I don’t know how anybody can stand that sound all day long.

I wandered around a while, thinking I had to be getting close, but every time I thought the crime scene should be around the next corner there was a restaurant instead, or a bank of elevators. I never saw so many little hallways and fountains and things. And everywhere—in corners and crannies, and odd little coves—were these holograms of kachinas. Life-sized, so lifelike they were scary. They bothered me, mostly because I knew that kachinas had some kind of religious meanings of which I was entirely ignorant.

Well, I broke down and asked for directions. Twice. By the time I finally found the crime scene I had lost a significant measure of my professional cool, and a crowd was already gathering. I had my hand clamped around my badge, and flashed it to the first cop-looking guy I saw— a huge man—Hispanic or Native American, I wasn’t sure. He was wearing a gray wool suit, mildly rumpled, that looked pretty nice even on his bulk.

He took one look at me and said, “More feds? We got Chase here already.”

“I’m Agent Sandra Marsh,” I said, pocketing my badge. “I’m here to assist Special Agent Chase.”

“Armando Mora, BIA PD,” he said, sounding bored. His face was a mask of stone. He glanced away and shouted, “Arnold, get the damned spectators out of here, will you?”

Some men in brown Tribal Police uniforms started shepherding the crowd away, and the big guy went to help while I was still trying to remember what “BIA” stood for. That’s when I spotted the yellow tape and the deader lying behind it on his back, his blood pooled around him like a mantle.

A woman was kneeling beside him, black “FBI” wind-breaker proclaiming her an evidence tech. Standing over him was a hologram: the Blue Corn Maiden. She was wearing a black dress and moccasins, and a shawl, and a mask painted blue with black rectangles for the eyes. Her hair was black too, done up in a kind of Princess Leia do on the sides of her head, and she was holding a basket filled with ears of corn.

I ducked under the tape, and got up close to the deader. Man, he was gorgeous! Late twenties, very slender, dressed in silk trousers and a shirt that had to have been tailored: the model/actor type. His eyes were closed; unusual, perhaps done by the killer. I knelt beside him, and the tech glanced at me.

“Shot, or stabbed?” I asked.

“Stabbed, I think. Nobody reported a shot.”

She picked up his hand—long delicate fingers—and began slipping a plastic bag over it. I looked at that serene face again, wondering who had destroyed such beauty, and why. I’m not ashamed to admit wishing I’d met him alive.

“Do we have an ID?” I asked.

“Alan Malone,” said a rich, deep voice to my right.

I glanced up and found myself staring at the Blue Corn Maiden, but she couldn’t have spoken in that masculine voice. Just past her a tall man in a worn leather jacket was leaning against the wall, taking an unhurried drag on a pipe. The coal glowed angry-hot as he pulled on it, at odds with the calm blue of his eyes. High forehead, big crooked nose, looked vaguely northern European. He was staring kind of absently at the body, jaw cocked a little to one side and a muscle or a vein pulsing on his temple underneath the thinning hair.

I stood up. “Special Agent Chase?”

He unfolded a lanky arm to shake my hand, then took the pipe from his mouth. “Welcome to New Mexico,” he said. “I hear you’ve just arrived.”

“Yes,” I said, straightening my shoulders a little. Yeah, I was defensive. Every cop I met was giving me the cool treatment, and this guy was no different.

“You’ll find Albuquerque is very different from Quantico. He’s a singer,” he said, gesturing toward the deader with the pipe. “Was, I mean. Worked here, in the Kachina Theater. Two shows a night, dark Tuesdays.”

“Dark?”

“No show. It’s their only day off.”

It was Wednesday. “So he was killed coming in this morning?” I said.

“Probably. Except that this hallway is nowhere near the theater entrance.”

“Between it and the parking lot?”

“Not really,” said Chase. “There’s an exit nearby, but there are closer ones to the theater.”

The BIA guy came back from shooing off the gawkers, and walked up to Chase. “How soon can we get him out of here?’’ he said.

“Easy, Mondo,” said Chase. “Did any of the staff see him alive?”

“Not so far. We’re still talking to the buffet people. The manager’s bitching—it’s almost time for lunch to open.”

Chase glanced past the Corn Maiden. “The line forms out there?”

“Right there,” said the big cop, nodding his head. He got an extra chin with each downward thrust of his jaw.

Chase looked down the hallway, then back at Mondo, and got this gentle little smile. “Maybe you should find a screen, then,” he said. He turned to me. “Shall we go look at the theater?”

“Sure,” I said. I followed him back the way I’d come, walking fast to keep up with his long stride, knowing I would most likely get lost again trying to find my way through the casino alone. “Um, Special Agent—”

“Call me Chase,” he said.

“OK. Do you happen to know where there’s a restroom?”

“Should be one right over here.” He led me past some craps tables to a bank of restrooms tucked in a corner, and said, “Meet you back here.”

He was nowhere in sight, however, when I came out. I waited, looking across the casino, watching the tourists gamble, listening to the clatter of slots paying off.

“I am Buffalo,” boomed a voice beside me.

“Jesus!” I said, jumping.

A hologram set off in a little alcove near the restrooms had come to life: a big guy in a huge furry headdress-robe thing that went all the way down his back. In one hand he held a rattle, which he started to shake. Distant drums throbbed.

“I am the gift of the Great Spirit,” he said. “I give the blessings of my body to the people. ...”

“All set?” said a voice behind me, and I jumped again. Chase had come out of nowhere. He hadn’t been in the men’s room, and he hadn’t come across the casino, and the only thing behind me was a wall.

“Shit,” I muttered. My heart was pounding.

“Sorry,” said Chase. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He sucked on his pipe, and glanced at the hologram giving its spiel. Then, just as I was really beginning to wish I was back in Quantico, he turned those blue eyes on me and smiled.

It transformed him. Suddenly he wasn’t just another tired cop, but a human being full of love and joy, sharing something fun with me, simply because I was a fellow human. Swear to god, his eyes actually twinkled. He grinned at me, and said, “They give me the willies, too!”

I managed a smile in return. Chase took off toward the casino again.

We passed more slots, poker tables, holograms of course, some kind of big wheel-of-fortune thingie, and still more slots. I followed Chase through an acre of blackjack and up a half-dozen steps to some closed banks of doors labeled “Kachina Theater” in orange and green neon. Two big holograms with antlers and bits of pine branches hanging off them stood on either side. Chase knocked at the center doors, knocked again, then pushed them open and we went in.

Dark. After all the noise and light of the casino, I felt like I’d stepped into some underground cavern. The doors fell shut with a muffled whump, sealing us off from light and life. I peered hard at nothing, trying to adjust my eyes.

A gust of wind hit my face with an audible “whoosh.” In the distance something pale moved. My neck hairs prickled; I stared at it until I discerned a bird flying, flapping great, lazy wings, glowing white against the darkness, growing closer, larger. An eagle; no, an eagle kachina with long, feathered wings strapped to arms that filled the width of the room as it rose toward us, enormous, majestic and terrible. I could hear the flap of the great wings, feel their wind wash over me. It flew overhead and vanished, leaving me drenched in silence.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Chase pleasantly beside me, “but we need to talk to someone connected to the show.”

“Tickets at the concierge desk,” an irritated voice returned from the darkness. “Sorry, no visitors. You’ll have to leave the theater.”

I noticed a dim row of aisle markers on the floor. My eyes were adjusting. Chase was now a shadow nearby.

“We’re not visitors,” he said. “We’re with the FBI. If you’ll bring up some lights and talk with us, we’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Mutterings, indistinguishable. I glanced over my shoulder at the doors. The faint seam of light between them flickered; a silent shadow passing. My skin prickled with the sense of someone unexpectedly near, and I was still peering after the shadow when the lights came up hard, making me blink. There was no one there.

“Thank you,” said Chase.

I followed him down the steps to where three men were sitting in a booth; two Native Americans and one Anglo. The natives both had that ageless, flat, round face that looked like it hid centuries of secrets; they stared at Chase with dark, watchful eyes. The white guy was around forty, with frizzy, graying hair in a ponytail and a pair of headphones around his neck. He looked pissed.

Chase flashed his badge. “Any of you know Alan Malone?’’

“Yeah,” said the white guy. “The little shit’s late.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” said Chase gently. He was halfway through explaining before I noticed the pun. Cop humor. I gave him a look but he seemed not to notice, except that a corner of his mouth twitched a little. The others didn’t have a clue.

“Oh, man!” said the Anglo, his eyebrows going up. “Oh, shit! Joe, call Ben and tell him to get down here!”

One of the natives nodded and started up the aisle at a jog. “Joe,” I wrote in my pocket notebook, starting a list of people to interview.

“Can I have your name, sir?” I said.

“Huh? Oh, sure. Stauffer. Daniel. Jesus, when did he die?”

“We’re not sure yet,” said Chase. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Monday night. Final performance of ‘The Wild West.’ “

Stauffer turned out to be the director for the Kachina Theater. He alternated between puzzlement over Malone’s death and dismay at its impact on the upcoming premiere, and some kind of excitement that I didn’t fully understand.

A few other people connected with the show emerged from various parts of the theater. Most of them, to my surprise, were white, not Native American. A couple were Hispanic. I took down names while Chase encouraged Stauffer to chat about Malone and the show. It sounded spectacular; from the way he was talking the eagle we’d seen was nothing. Live performers interacting with holographic gods, acting out the legend of creation. State-of-the-art physical simulation effects. When Stauffer offered Chase a pair of tickets, I felt a stab of envy.

Stauffer glanced past me, and I turned to see Joe coming back. I suppressed a shiver; hadn’t heard the door.

“He’s coming,” said Joe.

“Good,” said Stauffer. “Jesus. OK, let’s set everything up for the opening number again. Tom, recalibrate the soundtrack for Ben.”

“Who’s Ben?” Chase and I asked in unison.

“He’s, um, Malone’s understudy,” said Stauffer.

“Hey, Danny,” yelled a stagehand. “Somebody’s made a mess of the props!”

“Shit!” said Stauffer, pulling off the headphones and starting down the aisle toward the stage.

“We’ll get out of your way,” said Chase.

Stauffer paused. “Yeah, I’m sorry—”

“So are we. We’ll be in touch.”

I followed Chase up the steps. As he opened the door the casino’s noise struck me like thunder. I paused, gearing up to plunge into that chaos of light and sound. I’d always been kind of curious about Las Vegas or Atlantic City, but now I was beginning to lose interest. The people sitting at the slots all had this kind of weary, hope-against-hope expression as they fed the machines gold tokens from their plastic cups. False gold, false hopes. Seemed everything around here was false.

“Let’s go talk to the manager,” said Chase, raising his voice over the circus music. “You should meet him.”

“You know him?”

Chase nodded. “Been working pretty closely with all the managers in the Arroyo. Setting up good relations, so they’ll cooperate when there’s a problem. Lets them know we’re watching out for trouble.”

We passed several craps tables and some banks of blackjack tables I hadn’t previously seen. “Are all the casinos like this?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Uh—this big, I guess.”

“Pretty much,” said Chase, heading up a half dozen steps. At their top the red carpet gave way to marble floors and velvet ropes. We were suddenly in the hotel lobby, and the noise of the slots diminished behind us as we crossed it. I sighed with relief. Chase led me past a bank of elevators and down a hall.

Another kachina stood a little way ahead. This one was male, wearing a green mask with feathers on top and a white kilt-thing. His bare torso was painted black with green and yellow designs.

“This way,” said Chase’s voice behind me.

Turning, I saw him standing at the foot of an escalator discreetly tucked into an alcove. I’d gone right past without even seeing it. We rode up to a floor blessedly silent: not a slot, not a video game, not a scrap of neon. Even the carpet was more subdued. A small brass sign pointed the way to Meeting Rooms.

Chase led me through a set of carved double doors into a plush reception area. I mean, seriously plush. Leather sofa and chairs. Bronze planters full of calla lilies. Expensive art on the walls.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chase,” said a smiling Native American receptionist.

“Hello, Sally. This is Agent Marsh. Is Kyler still in that meeting?”

“All day. Can Emily help you?” said the receptionist.

“Sure,” said Chase. He sat down on the leather couch and invited me to join him. I did, feeling a flash of the little kid’s trepidation at sitting on the grown-up furniture. Chase’s fingers tapped the shiny brass of an ashtray standing next to the couch. The pristine sand had been shaped by some modern magic into a relief of the Rainbow Man’s mask.

“Mr. Chase?” said a soft voice to our right.

A woman walked out of a side hall and up to us, a pretty Native American with a long waterfall of black hair spilling over the shoulders of her cream-colored suit. She looked vaguely familiar, I thought. Chase stood up and shook her hand.

“Ms. True-hee-oh,” he said. (I learned later from Mondo that it’s spelled “Trujillo.”) “This is Agent Marsh.”

She shook my hand with dry, warm fingers. “I’m Mr. Kyler’s assistant. How can I help you?”

“Can you give us a room to conduct interviews?” said Chase. “We’re investigating the death of Alan Malone.”

Sally the Receptionist’s eyebrows went up, and she glanced at Ms. Trujillo, whose face showed a flicker of pain. The latter opened one of the heavy doors and led us out into the empty hallway.

The escalator hummed quietly at our feet. Ms. Trujillo led us down a hall flanked on one side by meeting rooms and the other by a wall of glass. The windows overlooked the hotel’s swimming pool, a huge affair with a waterfall, lots of landscaping, and a couple dozen tourists courting melanoma.

She took out a keychain and opened a door to a small room dominated by a conference table. Masks on the walls acted as sconces, light gleaming behind their eyes. I didn’t like them; they made me feel like I was being watched.

“You can use this room for your interviews,” she said.

“Fine,” said Chase. “Have a seat, please. I just have a few questions.”

Ms. Trujillo sat across the table from us. “I’m sorry,” Chase added. “I understand that you and Malone were close.”

“We were good friends,” said Ms. Trujillo, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not lovers?” Chase’s voice was gentle, but his eyes watched. I was glad I wasn’t the one being questioned.

“Friends,” she said firmly.

“When did you see him last?”

Ms. Trujillo’s eyes got faraway, and she didn’t respond for a moment. Then she blinked, and sighed. “Sunday there was a Corn Dance at the pueblo. He always came to the public dances.”

“Any trouble between you?”

Her eyelashes fell over her eyes—black slits—then she looked up at Chase. “No.”

“No disagreements?”

“We understood each other. He was very interested in our ways. He studied them. He knew them well.”

“Where were you this morning?”

“In my office. Sally can tell you.”

“Thank you,” said Chase. He leaned back in his chair. “Can you get us a list of everyone who works in the theater? I know they’re having a rehearsal, but we need to start interviewing—”

“I’ll have Sally make you a copy of the roster,” said Ms. Trujillo. I suddenly realized why she seemed familiar. She reminded me of the Blue Corn Maiden.

“Ms. Trujillo, did you pose for any of the kachina holograms?” I asked on impulse.

A flash of scorn in her eyes surprised me, then her lids half-hid them and her face became a mask of calm. “Those are actors,” she said flatly.

“Well, you might have done one for fun—”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t pose for them.” She looked from me to Chase, then stood up. “I’ve got some calls to make,” she said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Just that list,” said Chase.

“Sally will bring it to you. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Chase.

She left, sable hair swaying. I glanced at Chase, who gazed at the doorway long after she was out of sight. She was pretty. I suppose if I were a man I’d stare after her, too.

Chase took off to find out about the autopsy, leaving me to spend the rest of the afternoon interviewing Malone’s coworkers with the masks glaring down like a row of judges. Mondo fetched dancers and stage crew and waiters for me to grill. Dark-eyed natives from catering looked in now and then, silently refilling water and coffee, and once leaving a plate of dull but nourishing sandwiches.

Through the interviews I began to build a picture of Malone. They all agreed he was talented, well-liked, and would be sorely missed. No one could think of any reason someone would want to kill him. No one could even think of anyone who disliked him. He had no ex-wives, estranged lovers, or creditors. His drug use was confined to an occasional joint backstage. He didn’t gamble, drank moderately, never fought except for disagreements with Stauffer over staging and such. His family lived back east, and he spoke of them lovingly and infrequently. Yes, they’d been notified. The mother was flying in to claim her angel boy.

Chase called around five to tell me the ME’s opinion: Malone had been stabbed several times in the back with a thin, straight-bladed knife, possibly a stiletto. The killer was right-handed and no taller than Malone. Time of death between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m., and how was I doing with the interviews? I told him fine, fine. Actually, I was pretty discouraged.

I hung up and looked at the list Sally had brought. Check marks ran down three quarters of the page, with gaps here and there where some folks had not yet come in to work. A number of those I’d interviewed had alibied each other, and I’d established that Malone had been alive and well when he left the hotel after Monday night’s performance. Beyond that I hadn’t learned much.

The door opened, and Mondo stuck his head in. “Got the director for you finally. And the understudy. Which one you want first?”

“Understudy,” I said. I was getting ticked at the director, who’d been putting me off all afternoon, so now it was his turn to wait. “Hey, Mondo—did the victim’s car turn up?”

He nodded. “In the parking garage. Nothing useful in it. Nothing in the apartment either.”

“OK, thanks.” Malone’s life was too clean. This was not going to be easy.

Mondo let in a sharp-dressed, slick-haired stud whose every move said “gay.” He sat down across from me while I ran a finger down my list.

“Good afternoon, Mr. ...”

“Hanes,” he said. “Benjamin Hanes.”

“Mr. Hanes. Where were you before nine this morning?”

“With my voice coach. Every Wednesday.”

“All morning?”

“Till eleven. Then I had lunch with a friend, and then Joe paged me and I came down here. I guess I got here around one.”

“You hadn’t been here before that?”

“No, thank God! Poor Alan!”

“What was your relationship with Alan Malone?”

Hanes laughed. “Purely professional. Alan was depressingly straight. We all used to—”

“You were his understudy,” I said.

“Yes.”

“So you stood to gain from his death.”

His cheerful mask slipped a little. “I resent that,” he said with a laugh, but instead of sounding light he sounded sullen. “I would never hurt Alan.”

“I see. Do you know of anyone who would?”

“I can’t imagine. Everyone adored him. Even Miss T, and she doesn’t much care for the rest of us.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Doesn’t like the new show, on account of the kachinas. Doesn’t like the holograms either.”

Now that was interesting. Maybe Ms. Trujillo had wanted to stop the premiere.

“Did she argue about the show with Malone?”

“Not that I know of. He knew how she felt, and she knew he had to work.”

So dies a promising lead. I felt like I’d reached for a door, only to have the handle melt away under my hand. I asked Hanes a few more questions and got nothing useful, so I freed him and called for the director. They passed in the doorway and exchanged a glance that told me something more about Hanes.

“Thank you for taking the time to come up, Mr. Stauffer,” I said. “I know you’ve been rehearsing all day.”

The director looked haggard and pissed as he sat down. Coming in he’d looked worried. It had been a long day and I didn’t feel like pussyfooting around, so I said “You and Mr. Hanes are lovers, right?”

He frowned at me, then shrugged. “Yeah. You keeping a list of everybody Ben’s slept with?”

“Not yet. Where were you this morning before nine?” I said.

He sighed. “In the theater, setting up for the premiere.”

“When did you arrive?”

“I never left last night. I crashed upstairs.”

I hadn’t expected that. “In a hotel room?”

“Yeah. There’s usually a couple free. Mr. Kyler lets us use ‘em if we’re crunched for time mounting a new show.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“Ben went home. He wasn’t anywhere near the place until this afternoon.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Stauffer’s frown deepened a bit. “Steve Clay shared the room with me. He’s on an errand right now, be back in about an hour.”

“What’s the errand?” I asked.

“Somebody dicked with our props, and there’s one missing. He’s getting a replacement.”

A chill ran down my back. “What kind of prop?” A knife, perhaps?

“A rattle.”

Oh.

“Did you like Alan Malone?” I asked, for lack of a better question.

“Sure, I liked him. He was a decent guy. Saw things his own way, of course. All actors do.”

“But you’re glad Ben has his part now, right?”

Stauffer sat back, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Listen, Ben’s got a lot of talent”—he dropped his voice with a glance at the door—”but he’s no Alan Malone. Yeah, I’m glad he’s getting a shot, but if you think I’d kill Alan to give it to him, you’re crazy.”

There was not much more to say. I got the names of his alibis for the morning, and let him go back to the theater. It was almost six by now and Mondo was looking hungry, so I called it a day. With my notes under my arm I headed back down the escalator in search of dinner, grateful to be up and about even if it meant running the casino gauntlet again.

I swear they were moving the walls. The place never looked the same twice, except that it all looked more or less the same. Slots, slots, tables, slots, and holograms. I noticed one I’d seen before—a guy painted red all over with a big, snaggle-toothed snout on his mask—and made a mental note of the landmark. I was making progress; the casino still disoriented me, but it didn’t seem quite so huge. I had almost gone past the Blue Com Maiden before I recognized her and stopped.

The little hallway was empty. A damp area of recently shampooed carpet was the only sign of disturbance. I stared at it, feeling a crazy stab of loss. Blue Com Maiden still stood guard over the spot where Alan Malone had died, but the casino had already forgotten him. Well, I wouldn’t. Someone that handsome—and, apparently, that nice—deserved justice.

Looking up at the hologram, I had no idea why I’d thought she was like Ms. Trujillo. Her hair wasn’t loose, and her face was a mask. I reached toward her, my hands passing through the air where she was and was not. My fingers seemed to disappear into her basket of com.

“There you are,” said Chase’s voice behind me, making me jump again.

“Damn it,” I said. “Quit sneaking up on me like that!”

“Sorry. What were you doing with the hologram?”

I looked up at him, then on impulse I stepped into the hologram and turned to face him.

He shook his head. “Doesn’t work. You’re just blocking the projector. Watch.”

I moved aside, and when Chase stepped into her place the Corn Maiden vanished. We found the projection equipment in the wall behind her, and played a little more with the image, figuring out how it worked. We concluded the hologram could hide a small object—my notebook disappeared nicely into her feet—but nothing as big as a person. Still, the back of my neck tingled, as if some dormant Hunter’s sense had awakened. I fumbled with the projectors, squinting to see past the bright beams of light, and spotted a small red button.

Flute music blasted out of the speaker in front of me. I jumped back, and the hologram flicked into existence, raising the basket of corn in her arms.

“I am the Blue Corn Maiden,” she said. “I guard the seed of the sacred corn, and watch over the young plants as they grow. I am the keeper of our gift from the gods.”

“What did you do?” said Chase, as the Corn Maiden gestured in different directions with her basket.

“Pushed a button,” I said.

“You must have found a test mode,”

The flute music subsided, and the Corn Maiden resumed her normal frozen stance.

“Chase . . . would you mind blocking the projectors again? I want to check something.”

“Not now,” he said softly. I turned and saw Ms. Trujillo coming toward us.

“Agent Chase, I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I had a note from Daniel Stauffer asking me to give you these,” she said, handing him an envelope. He took it, and pulled out a pair of tickets.

“They’re for the seven o’clock dinner show,” said Ms. Trujillo. “Is that all right?”

“Fine,” said Chase. “Want one?” he asked, turning to me and making me blush, because of course, yes I did.

Ms. Trujillo smiled briefly at us both, said, “Enjoy the show,” and headed back into the depths of the casino.

Chase held out a ticket. I glanced up and saw him smiling. I guess I was more tired than I’d realized, because that smile hit me straight in the chest.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the ticket and hoping he hadn’t noticed how red I was getting.

“Be warned—I’m going to talk about work,” he said.

Chase led the way back into the depths of the casino. I saw the Buffalo guy coming up, and noted that he was near a large bank of slots with a neon eagle above them. Across from him was a doorway.

Now, I was pretty sure that that was the same wall I’d been standing by earlier, and there had not been a door in it, and there had not been a hologram in front of it either, but now there was. I stared at the kachina, which had curving antennae and was painted head to toe in black and white stripes. He was wearing a black kilt and holding what looked like a handful of grass. How I could have missed him earlier I don’t know.

Chase went through the doorway into a fern bar. He made a beeline for a table of executive types, one of whom looked up and grinned.

“Chase! Pull up a chair! Who’s your friend?”

“Agent Marsh. She’s assisting me in the investigation,” said Chase, turning to me with a nod. “This is Mr. Kyler.”

“Agent Marsh,” said a big, friendly rancher-type, standing up to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” His smile was the painted-on kind you see on politicians and other salesmen. He said names around the circle— they turned out to be the Rainbow Man’s board of directors, every last one of them white—and offered to buy us a drink. We sat in padded leather chairs and I sipped at a beer while Chase settled into a glass of Irish whiskey.

“Terrible about Malone,” said Kyler. “We were just discussing it. Terrible. He was a great draw.”

“Maybe the new guy won’t cost so much,” said a silver-haired guy with a Texas twang. “You always used to gripe about how expensive this kid was.”

“Yeah, but he was good,” said Kyler. “Pulled in the crowds. Gotta keep those patrons coming in. You’ll wind this thing up nice and quiet, won’t you, Chase?”

Chase shrugged and sipped his liquor. “Do what I can. Murder is never tidy, though.”

The talk turned to the casino and a new hotel Mr. Kyler was planning further up the Strip. Most of it was about negotiations to lease the land from the pueblo. Boring stuff. After a few minutes I excused myself, promising to meet Chase at the theater at quarter to seven. I went past the elevators and up the discreet escalator to businessland. There was something I wanted to check without Chase around.

I pushed against the heavy double doors, half expecting them to be locked, but they weren’t. They creaked a little as I poked my head in. Sally the Receptionist looked up from her desk.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “Did you need something?”

I came in, letting the doors fall shut behind me. “I just have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. Were you leaving?”

“In a few minutes. Have a seat.”

I watched her tidy up some papers on her desk. She had a round face and short, curly black hair. Smiled easily. A mama type. “You’re working late,” I said.

“Because of the board meeting,” said Sally. “I had to get tomorrow’s agenda straightened out. Things got off schedule today.”

“What time did Mr. Kyler get here this morning?” I asked.

“Around eight, I think,” said Sally.

“Did you see him come in?”

“Yes. He and Mr. Parker came in together. They went out again, but I’m not sure when.”

Parker was one of the guys I’d met in the lounge. I made a note.

“What time did you get here?”

“Mm—ten to eight, I guess.”

“Was anyone else here who might have seen them?”

“Emily was in her office. She spent the whole morning on the phone.”

“Ms. Trajillo? Is her office near his?”

“Yes—let me show you.”

She got up and led me down a wide hallway. The plush carpet deadened our footsteps. Sally waved a hand toward an open doorway. “That’s Emily’s office, and this is Mr. Kyler’s.”

I didn’t get to Kyler’s. Behind the desk in the corner of Ms. Trujillo’s office stood a kachina hologram. It was a woman, with a white mask and towering stairstep headdress—decked in feathers and carved wooden flowers—a red shawl, and a white skirt. I stared at her.

“That’s the Butterfly Maiden,” said Sally. “They did a pretty good job on that one. At least I think so. She’s Hopi, so I’m not sure.”

“What’s she doing in Ms. Trujillo’s office?”

“Mr. Kyler gave her to Emily. He pretty much gives her what she wants.”

“She wanted this?”

Sally nodded. “She asked for it Monday. I’m not sure why—she doesn’t really like them. Mr. Kyler wanted them because there was some unhappiness when this hotel was built. It’s the only hotel in the Arroyo that’s not Indian-owned.”

“So he decided to add some Ind—some Native American culture.”

Sally nodded. “Emily tried to talk him out of it, but he went ahead with it. The holograms were created by Dan Stauffer and his staff, using local actors. Some people got very angry.”

“Does it make you angry?”

She hesitated. “They’re not really kachinas,” she said slowly. “They’re more like the dolls—something you could use to teach about the kachinas—only these aren’t very accurate. I guess I would like it better if they weren’t here, but I want to keep my job, so I don’t say anything.”

How many others feel that way, I wondered? I reached through the image, skin tingling, and found the projector on the wall behind. As my hands blocked the light the image vanished, and I glanced at the floor. Nothing there.

“Are you and Ms. Trujillo from the same, uh—”

“Pueblo?” said Sally. (I’d been about to say “tribe.”) “Yes, we’re both from Sandia.”

I looked through the doorway at Kyler’s office across the hall, then back at the hologram. Butterfly Maiden bothered me.

“Tell me about Sandia,” I said.

“We’re one of the smallest pueblos. Less than five hundred. A big family, really.”

“I heard something about a dance—”

“Oh, the Corn Dance. Yes, it was just a couple of days ago.”

Corn Dance. Corn Maiden. A connection?

“Was Alan Malone there?” I asked, remembering something Ms. Trujillo had said.

“Oh, yes. He’s been coming to all the dances this year. He likes to pick up the feel of them, for the new show.”

“Did he have any enemies in Sandia?”

Sally’s eyes widened a little. “No—everyone liked him. Even the elders. He’s—he was—always very polite.”

I stared at Sally’s flat face, feeling like I was forgetting to ask some basic question. Something like, “Did you kill the guy?” I didn’t think Sally was the murderer, though. Besides the fact that she and Ms. Trujillo had both been upstairs all morning, she was just too nice. She let me stand there a full minute before she started to fidget.

“This is Mr. Kyler’s office,” she said, stepping across the hall. I peered into a huge room with big picture windows. The late sun was slanting through orange anvil clouds outside, and the Arroyo was really beginning to sparkle. I could see a corner of the Cibola Hotel across the street, all gold-glitter glitz.

Kyler had a hologram too—the Rainbow Man, of course—along with other bits of expensive art and a desk made out of some huge gnarled tree trunk. On it sat a Rainbow Man kachina doll: foot-high, carved wood, like the ones I’d seen at the airport.

“Is there anything else you wanted to see?” Sally asked.

“Yeah,” I said, giving up. “A photo of Alan Malone.”

I followed her back to the foyer, and she dug up an eight-by-ten glossy and two show flyers, one for “The Wild West” and one for “Pageant of Creation.”

“We’ll have to redo that one, I guess,” she said, handing them over.

“Thanks, Sally,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

I went down to the theater, which I found by a somewhat roundabout but effective route of Buffalo-guy to neon eagle to Red Snout to black-with-rabbit-ears to antlers. The casino looked exactly as it had at midday—bright lights, lots of color, lots of noise—and I realized there were no windows and no clocks anywhere. Made sense, I guess. If you’re a casino owner you don’t want your customers thinking about how late it is.

The theater was open and I was promptly seated in a booth, one of the best seats in the house, for the simple reason that it faced the stage. The tiers above and below the booths were jammed with narrow tables perpendicular to the stage; people sitting there would have to turn their heads to see the show. Cram in the customers, make big bucks.

The stage was hidden behind a glittery blue curtain. In front of it a giant hologram hung in midair: the Rainbow Man’s mask, with black rectangle eyes. I took out Alan Malone’s black and white glossy, held it in both hands and stared at it long and hard. His eyes—which I had only seen closed—had been blue or gray or some other light color; they almost looked clear in the photo. His smile was intensely charming. Gorgeous boy, everyone’s darling. Why did you die? And who closed your eyes against the night?

I looked at the “Wild West” flyer, dismissed it, and picked up the one for “Pageant of Creation.” The eagle kachina we’d seen earlier was on the front page, along with a full-length photo of Alan Malone all in white. I opened the flyer, activating a snap-holo, the gimmicky kind you find in greeting cards. The eagle again, soaring across the page before winking out. Not a cheap flyer. Too bad they’d have to redo it. Alan Malone had clearly been the star attraction; his face and name were all over the brochure, along with slogans like “Discover Sandia’s Ancient Mysteries” and “Journey through the Indian Myth of Creation.” I wondered why Malone—obviously talented but undeniably white—was the star of a show about Native American mythology. Circumstance, maybe. Malone probably had a contract with the hotel, and the show had been designed to attract tourists. Plug star into show and you have an instant hit, right?

“Looking forward to the show?”

I looked up at Chase. He sat down across from me and leaned across the table. “What do you have?” he said.

I told him the results of my interviews. He nodded and said I’d done well, which was nice of him.

“No one has a clear motive,” I said. “Did the weapon ever turn up?”

Chase shook his head. “Mondo’s boys spent the day going through every trash can and Dumpster on the premises,” he said. “They’re starting on the neighboring hotels.”

I sighed. “No weapon, no motive, no suspect. So far we don’t have much of a case.”

“It’s early yet,” said Chase. “And we have a potential suspect. You said Stauffer had motive.”

“Yeah, and when I pointed it out he agreed, and then denied killing Malone. He’s got three alibis for this morning, unless we can break them.”

Chase took a thoughtful sip of his drink.

“There’s another potential suspect,” I said. “Mr. Kyler.”

“Hm. I don’t think Kyler would.”

“Remember his partner saying he complained about how much he had to pay Malone?”

“Yes.” Chase swirled the ice in the bottom of his glass, peering into it as if he saw something mystic in there. “It doesn’t seem a strong enough motive.”

“How about this? He gives his assistant expensive art for her office, but she was close to Malone.”

Chase raised an eyebrow. “Love triangle? I don’t think so. He’s devoted to Marie. Mrs. Kyler. Besides, he has an alibi.”

“We haven’t established that yet—”

“Don’t have to. It’s me.” He looked up at me. “I was here at eight-thirty. Kyler asked me to breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

He sighed. “I should have. I’m sorry.”

I watched him frown into his glass, and wondered how close a friend Kyler was. Our dinners arrived, and I remembered something I’d wanted to ask about. It was kind of an embarrassing question, but I figured what the hell.

“Chase—you know the lounge we had a drink in? Near the stripey guy?”

“Yeah?”

“It, ah—wasn’t there earlier. This morning. I think.”

Give him credit, he didn’t laugh. He just cocked his head and gave me that intent, puzzled look. “Wasn’t there?”

“There was a blank wall there—”

“Oh . . . that’s a security feature,” said Chase.

“Security?”

“It’s a hologram. The hotel uses them to discourage people from entering areas that are closed—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the house speakers, “the Kachina Theater is proud to present “Pageant of Creation,’ starring Benjamin Hanes!”

The lights went out. The kachina mask glowed for a second, then faded and the place went pitch dark. Then I heard a “whoosh” that made my scalp tingle even though it was familiar. The pale speck of the eagle dancer began to grow in the black well of the stage. The audience gasped as it flew overhead.

The stage lit up with flying holograms of kachinas—I counted a dozen before I lost track—along with live performers dancing to the rhythm of a row of drummers in colorful garb. The music and the images increased in speed and intensity until they became a maelstrom of sound and color. Then the place went dark again, and another pale spot began to glow in the depths of the stage while the drums rumbled low and a voice began chanting. The image took form: a man, all in white, arms outstretched. It grew larger than life, and brighter, reaching out over the audience, and I gasped as I realized it was Alan Malone’s ghost in the second before it vanished. Chase must have heard me, because he laid a hand on my arm. The stage lights came up on the singer—all in white, raising arms draped in a cape of white feathers—Benjamin Hanes.

“They didn’t have time to rerecord the hologram,” Chase said in my ear. I nodded, still feeling a weird shiver.

There were more holograms of Malone—he was inextricably part of the show, and I felt grimly privileged to watch his final performance. In one number Hanes sang a duet with Malone’s hologram—something about twin brothers journeying to the sun—truly spooky. Hanes was good, but he didn’t have Malone’s charisma. This was only a ghost of the show it would have been.

Even so, I enjoyed the hell out of it. Lots of color, beautiful use of holography and sensory effects. When the lights came up for intermission I clapped till my hands ached.

Chase’s applause was more reserved, so much so that I asked if he disliked the show. He frowned, and said, “The performance is fine. I’m just not sure about the content.”

“What about it?” I asked.

“Well, it’s a mish-mosh, and some of those Indian chants—’’

“You mean Native American.”

“I mean Indian. They call themselves Indians, so I do too.”

I felt myself blushing. “I’d been given to understand ‘Native American’ was the accepted term.”

“Maybe the eastern tribes prefer it. My friends would laugh if I called them Native Americans.”

Our waiter brought us dessert, which was a scoop of something white (not ice cream) in a puddle of something brown (not chocolate). I took a bite, and pushed the rest away. It was like everything else in this place—a sham— not what it looked like.

“Not going to eat that?” said Chase. He had already inhaled his. He gestured toward my plate with his spoon, and I handed it over.

“Oh, hey,” I said, watching him dig in. “There’s something else we should check. May not mean anything, but Stauffer said somebody stole one of the props.”

“A knife?” said Chase, eyes sharp.

“Nope. A rattle.”

“Rattle? What kind?”

“I don’t know.” We’d seen dozens of rattles in the show.

Chase dropped his spoon on the empty plate and stood up. “Let’s go ask.”

“Ah—in the middle of the performance?”

“Why not?”

One thing about Chase, he didn’t waste time. We went down the aisle and climbed a half-dozen steps at the side of the stage. Backstage was crammed with towering racks of lights and projectors. Chase found the props girl—a sharp-faced Hispanic I’d interviewed that afternoon—arranging things on a long table. He flashed his badge.

“Could you tell us about the missing rattle?” he said.

“How about after the show?” she said. “I’m kind of busy.”

“Was it the same as these?” said Chase, picking up a rattle from the table.

“Hey! Put that down!”

Chase did. “Was the rattle that was stolen like this?”

“Yes, it was, only it wasn’t stolen, it was broken.”

“Broken?”

“Somebody rummaged through the props last night, and they broke one. So if you don’t mind—”

“What’s that one?” I said, pointing to a smaller rattle that we hadn’t seen onstage. Unlike the others, it wasn’t painted. A single white feather was tied to it with a leather thong.

“That’s Alan’s. I mean Ben’s. Don’t touch it, please,” she said as Chase reached for it. “It’s fragile.”

“Lucky it wasn’t broken, too,” said Chase.

“It wasn’t here. Alan asked me to keep it locked up.”

Chase and I looked at each other. “Why?” I asked.

“He said it was special—Uncle Joe Vigil gave it to him.”

“Who’s—”

“Five minutes,” said a guy in black, brushing past us.

The props girl gave me a pleading look. “I really can’t talk now—”

“We’ll come back after the performance,” I said. “Please don’t leave.”

“Can’t. There’s another show at ten.”

I pulled out my notebook and tried to scribble in the half-dark while I followed Chase. “What name did she say? Vee-heel?”

“Joe Vigil,” said Chase. “He’s about the oldest guy at Sandia Pueblo.” He stopped. Dancers were pouring out of a bright doorway in a stream of colored feathers, heading for the stage to start the second act. When they’d cleared out Chase went on, but I stayed.

Down the hall, in an open doorway, Emily Trujillo was arguing with Benjamin Hanes. I got as close as I could without entering the hall, and heard Hanes say, “—didn’t give it to me.” Then he started toward me and I ducked back, and nearly tripped over one of the racks of lights. Hanes came out and went onstage. I waited for Trujillo, but she didn’t appear, and I glanced back down the hall just in time to see her go into Hanes’s dressing room.

“Chase!” I hissed. I couldn’t see very far; figured he’d gone back to our table. The show was about to start again. The rational thing to do would be to go back to my seat. So I went down the hall and knocked at the dressing room door.

No answer. I waited, knocked again, then opened it.

The room was empty.

I stepped in and pushed the door closed behind me. I was getting pissed off. This whole place was a lie, and as soon as this damn case was over I was requesting that transfer.

“Ms. Trujillo?”

There were no other doors; not even a closet, just a rack of costumes in one corner, some of which I recognized. The feather cape was there, white plumes flickering slightly in the breeze.

Breeze?

No fan in the room. There was an air duct in the ceiling, but when I reached up toward it I felt nothing. I held my hand over the feather cape, and caught a whisper of air coming from behind the costume rack. I pulled it aside and reached a hand toward the bare wall behind it. It went through.

“Shit!”

I took a deep breath and stepped through the wall. Weird feeling—all my imagination, of course—but only ghosts and superheroes are supposed to walk through walls.

I was in a short, dark corridor. Light at the other end, and carpet that looked like some part of the casino, but no sign of Ms. Trujillo. I went toward the light, stepped out into it and stopped cold. Across the hall and down a few feet stood the Blue Corn Maiden.

“Jesus.”

I turned around, and found myself facing a blank wall. Reached out, and through; another hologram. Security feature, Chase had said. I remembered my confusion over the lounge. They were moving the damn walls!

Things started clicking in my brain. Private entrance to the star’s dressing room. Alan Malone had a perfectly good reason to be in the hall by the Blue Corn Maiden; he was on his way to the theater. The killer was someone who knew about the concealed corridor, maybe even hid there. Didn’t look good for Daniel Stauffer. Then again, Kyler might have known it was there; his assistant certainly did. For someone who didn’t like holograms, Ms. Trujillo sure knew a lot about them.

Oh.

I started through the casino, trying not to run. I crossed the lobby and passed the elevators, then hopped on the escalator and took the steps two at a time. The doors to the office were gone; a solid wall now stood at the top of the escalator. I put a hand through it and felt the carved doors behind. They were unlocked.

Dark. I felt around on the wall for a light switch, then gave up and started down the hallway. Arroyo-light from the picture windows in Kyler’s office spilled across the carpet.

Kyler had an alibi. Stauffer had three alibis. And Sally the Receptionist said Trujillo had been on the phone all morning. On the phone, talking to no one. Just sitting at her desk.

I nearly tripped myself getting to Trujillo’s office. Butterfly Maiden still stood in the corner, glowing in the dark room. It hadn’t occurred to me before to wonder why Trujillo had put the hologram behind her desk, where she couldn’t see it. I fumbled with the projectors, found the button, pushed it, stepped back.

Butterfly Maiden vanished. In her place, seated in a holographic desk chair and murmuring into a holographic phone, was Emily Trujillo in her pretty cream-colored suit.

“Holy shit!”

I stopped thinking at that point. All I knew was that Trujillo had killed her very dear friend, and that I had to find her. I tore out of there and back down to the casino, but of course she was nowhere in sight.

I headed for the theater, intending to get Chase. The maitre d’ let me in and I stood in the dark at the back of the house, waiting for my eyes to adjust so I wouldn’t fall on my face on the steps.

The stage lights were low. Hanes was alone, kneeling in front of a holographic fire, chanting low and loud, unaccompanied. Some small movement to my right caught my eye; I saw a pale shape moving down the far aisle, and a shiver went down my back. I went toward it.

Hanes chanted louder and waved his arms over the fire as if casting some magic spell. A darker shape loomed between me and the pale blob, and my stomach lurched as I hurried toward them both, touching the backs of chairs and shoulders, whispering, “Sorry, sorry,” and trying to keep half an eye on the stage.

Hanes reached into the false fire, brought out the little plain rattle I’d seen on the prop table, and raised it over his head. At the same time a pale arm was raised ahead of me, and I saw it was Emily Trujillo’s arm, holding a gun. Then the shadow between us blocked it.

I screamed “No!” and the gun went off, and all hell broke loose. I ran the last few feet between me and Trujillo, barked my shin on something, cussed as I saw the shadow-shape crumple. The gun went off again, flash nearly blinding me, screams all around, not the least of which was Benjamin Hanes shrieking like a lunatic and blowing out the house speakers.

The Quantico boys would have been proud. More by feel than by sight I tackled Trujillo, sat on her and took the gun away.

The house lights came up. On the floor nearby Chase lay bleeding, looking very surprised. I stared down at Trujillo, and managed to refrain from smacking her. Her black eyes were narrowed to slits—like the rectangle eyes of the kachinas—then she closed them. She never gave in, even then.

She was charged with premeditated murder and assault with a deadly weapon. She hadn’t hit Hanes, and I still think she never meant to. Her second shot shattered the rattle that Uncle Joe Vigil—the oldest, and incidentally the most senile man in Sandia Pueblo—had given to Alan Malone.

Mondo told me it had been a ceremonial rattle, and it should never have been seen by a white man, much less taken from the pueblo. But Alan Malone was a charmer; he made his living making people like him, and he’d fooled even Emily Trujillo. She’d brought him to Sandia, and doubtless she felt responsible when he took the rattle. I wondered what he’d said when she asked for its return, and if he’d really realized what it meant to her and her people.

I went to her arraignment, which was really just the usual, but I’d promised Chase a full report. He was stuck in the hospital for a few days, and maybe another junior agent would have resented being sent to fetch chocolate and ice cream and jelly beans, but I had learned something. Of all the masks I’d encountered, Chase’s was the easiest to see through if you bothered to look, His was just shyness, and underneath it was a wonderful being.

I stayed at the back of the courtroom, so Trujillo didn’t see me until she was being led away. The eyes she turned on me were flat black, with no more emotion in them than the Blue Corn Maiden’s black rectangles. She had her own mask. We all do.

It’s my job to notice little things, though, and as she looked away, I saw the flicker of grief. Maybe for Malone, maybe for a deeper loss, or maybe more than one. No regret, though. She’d done what she felt was necessary to make things right. I went away sad, but satisfied. I had seen the gentle and determined soul who had taken Alan Malone’s life, and then reached out to close his eyes.

This is the story of a story come full circle.

A few years ago, I heard about an anthology Roger Zelazny was editing, and I decided to try writing a story for it. The theme of the anthology was gambling, so I decided to write about gambling at cards, specifically bridge. At the time, Indian gaming in New Mexico consisted of only a couple of bingo halls, and I decided to set my story in the near future, in a casino on the Sandia Indian reservation.

Well, the story didn’t work. It had some nice stuff in it, but overall it was awful, so awful that I didn’t bother trying to fix it, and I never sent it to Roger.

I was honored, this year, to receive an invitation to pay tribute to Roger with a story. I immediately thought of that old failed attempt, and decided to make use of it. Nowadays there really is a casino on the Sandia reservation, so I decided to go it one better, and salvaged the good bits from that first try, and stuck them into “Arroyo de Oro.”

So here’s your story, Roger, at long last. Thanks for being your wonderful self.

Billy Blackhorse Singer of Eye of Cat would certainly understand the conflicts faced by Will Jared in Bradley Sinor’s tale.