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older citizens" in a chorus of "God Bless America."
        It was ducky, it was plucky, it was yucky and Tobin, in his stupid screaming shirt, was right in the middle of it.
        The warm-up comedian, Marty Gerber, was one of those rare young comedians who didn't use shock material for his laughs, favoring instead almost gentle comments on the perverse nature of human beings, some of the most perverse of whom were the gaudy tourists in their gaudy clothes spread now like a lurid flower garden over the deck where the show was being taped.
        As Marty skillfully worked the audience, the rest of the crew went through the final breakdown of lighting, camera positioning, and sound checks.
        "We've got three segments to tape today! Three segmerits!" Jere Farris said, clapping his hands at a lighting man whom he'd perceived dawdling. "Do you understand how much money we're losing?"
        Farris, tart, given to matronly hand-clapping and a certain prissiness in expression, was never a favorite with crews, most of whom ran to overweight, blue-jeaned guys who hated anybody who was on camera, but hated especially people in position to give them orders. Especially guys who gave orders by clapping hands.
        Tobin ducked down and made an elaborate pretense of tying his penny loafer. At least he hoped that people had the impression he was tying his shoe. What he was really doing, of course, was pouring pure silver vodka from his pure silver flask-which was mounted by Velcro backing to his sock-into his stupid pink-yellow fruit drink.
        As he poured, he took the opportunity to admire Cassie McDowell's perfect ankles.
        Then he sat back up and began sipping with quiet satisfaction.
        He had just sort of wiggled himself back into position when he noticed the makeup woman, a very shy, graceful, twentyish girl named Joanna Howard, staring at him. If Tobin were ever asked to cast a film about the Amish, he'd choose her-she had that kind of severe prettiness that sometimes is far more interesting than any other sort, perhaps because it's touched with mystery. Joanna rarely spoke but only nodded, rarely smiled but only sort of inclined her head when she realized that she was supposed to laugh but could not, apparently, find the appropriate sound. Then there were her clothes. Though the cruise was "tropical," she always wore heavy white silk blouses that came all the way down to her wrists and very heavy designer jeans and heavy woolen argyle socks and white tennis shoes of the Keds variety. Her blue gaze fascinated him, and he wondered now how long she'd been standing there and if she'd guessed what he'd just done.
        "Did you see that?"
        She looked puzzled.
        "No, I guess you didn't."
        "Your nose," she said.
        "My nose?"
        "Needs powder."
        "Oh."
        "Shiny."
        "Ah."
        So she did his nose to reduce the glare and then she did his cheeks and jaw again, apparently just as a precaution.
        As she worked, he said, "Do you ever relax?" He saw her cheeks color.
        "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Joanna. And I wasn't flirting." You had to treat her like a very skittish animal. "I just mean, are you having fun on the trip?"
        She nodded. "Sure."
        "Why don't I ever see you in any of the lounges?"
        "Oh. This allergy, I guess."
        "Allergy."
        "To alcohol."
        "Oh."
        "But I brought some good books."
        "Oh."
        For the first time ever, he saw her smile. "Books are better than people sometimes."
        "True enough."
        "I'm reading Thomas Wolfe."
        And she was of course at just the right age for Wolfe. Only later on-after your first kid, your first firing, and the death of a parent-did you realize that Wolfe's concerns were those of a very talented but very self-consumed fourteen-year-old.
        "You don't like him?"
        "Why do you say that?"