lothing upon the floor. It was the
costume of the toreador.

Hyrel laughed, too. It had happened many times before--a costume
suddenly left empty as its owner, due to a threat of discovery at home,
had had to press the switch in haste to bring his shadowy self--and
complete consciousness--back to his outer self in a hurry.

A waiter picked up the clothing. He would put it safely away so that the
owner could claim it upon his next visit to the club. Another waiter
placed a fresh bottle of whiskey on the table before Hyrel, and Hyrel
paid him for it.

The whiskey, reaching his head now in surges of warm cheerfulness, was
filling him with abandonment, courage, and a desire for merriment. He
pushed himself up from the table, joined the merry throng, threw his arm
about the Persian dancer, drew her close.

They began dancing slowly to the throbbing rhythm, dancing and holding
on to each other tightly. Hyrel could feel her hot breath through her
veil upon his neck, adding to the headiness of the liquor. His feeling
of depression and inferiority flowed suddenly from him. Once again he
was the all-conquering male.

His arm trembled as it drew her still closer to him and he began dancing
directly and purposefully toward the shadows of a clump of artificial
palms near one corner of the room. There was an exit to the garden
behind the palms.

Half way there they passed a secluded booth from which protruded a long
leg clad in black mesh stocking. Hyrel paused as he recognized that part
of the costume. It was she! The girl! The one he had met so briefly the
night before!

His arm slid away from the Persian dancer, took hold of the mesh-clad
leg, and pulled. A female form followed the leg from the booth and fell
into his arms. He held her tightly, kissed her white neck, let her
perfume send his thoughts reeling.

"Been looking for me, honey?" she whispered, her voice deep and throaty.

"You know it!"

He began whisking her away toward the palms. The Persian girl was
pulled into the booth.

Yes, she was wearing the same costume she had worn the night before,
that of a can-can dancer of the 90's. The mesh hose that encased her
shapely legs were held up by flowered supporters in such a manner as to
leave four inches of white leg exposed between hose top and lacy
panties. Her skirt, frilled to suggest innumerable petticoats, fell away
at each hip, leaving the front open to expose the full length of legs.
She wore a wig of