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been to the Paint Pots at Yellowstone Park once, all steam and sulfur and colors; it was like that, but stretching for miles.
    A breeze whistled through the bridge ironwork. It was the only sound there was. There was nobody here. The emptiness, the loneliness was awful.
    A dull metallic sound came from beneath the road. Contraction? Loose bolts? Trolls?
    He got back into the car. Up ahead was more iron, framing the street. He took a right, and the sun went out: the street was framed and roofed by metal lacework, big riveted girders. The elevated railroad, Danny realized. There didn't seem to be any trains running, though he saw a couple of station signs, and a stairway with people sitting on the steps.
    Danny drove as straight as he could back to the house, down into the garage. McCain and Jesse were playing cards.
    "The stuff you put in," Danny said, "does it work, outside? I mean, where there isn't magic?"
    "Sure," Jesse said. "Not so well, but better'n spit 'n' baling wire." He put a card down.
    McCain picked it up. "You know what—"
    "Yeah, I know what baling wire is!" Danny shouted.
    Both men were looking at him. Neither had any kind of meaningful expression.
    Danny said, "I'm sorry."
    "For what?" McCain said. "Now, Jesse, he's gonna be sorry. Gin"" He tossed his cards down. "What do you say we go down to the club now? You'll have a better look before the crowd gets there, and we can get a head start on the evening's serious purposes."
    "Without Mr. Patrise?"
    "Oh, he'll be there. Get your coat. . . and grab your hat. . . ." He sang the last four words in a terrible baritone. "And don't forget your black bag, Doc."
    The took the Triumph, McCain folding with care and some difficulty into the passenger seat.

    "Left up here," he said. "So, magic or not, you like how she drives?"
    "Oh, yeah. I, uh, she doesn't seem to have as much power, though."
    "That's 'cause you're partly on spells. They don't have the kind of power you get from high-test gas." He chuckled. "Sounds funny, don't it? You think about magic, thunderbolts, splittin' the Red Sea. And some of it's like that. I hear in Elfland—but we'll never see that. In the Shades it's rickety, and when you tie it to machines it's rickety-tickety. Tin."
    "Mr. Patrise's car seemed to have plenty of go."
    "Mr. Patrise's car is particular. The others are mostly wood and fiberglass. The kids who can afford 'em ride bikes. But you can't see Mr. Patrise on a bike, now can you?"
    They parked in an alleyway and walked the last block to the club, coats flapping in the cool air. Somebody in a cap and a frowzy jacket hustled by, carrying something in brown paper tucked tight under his arm. Danny wondered if he were a Vamp. He supposed he'd have to learn to tell that.
    A few steps before they reached the awning, the electric sign came on. Abruptly there was movement at every edge of Danny's vision: people rounding corners, moving deeper into shadows or changing the ones they already had. A few people came out of darkness, too: all of them dressed up, dressed to kill.
    "Mr. McCain!" one of them said, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and a cowboy duster, walking with a woman in a fringed jacket and tight skirt of white leather.
    "Sheepscry. And Miss West. Good evening." McCain tipped his hat. The man lifted his. He was an elf, ivory-skinned, silver hair— not gray but metallic silver—slicked back, small round glasses with black lenses.
    Miss West, who was human, said, "I would imagine this is Doc Hallownight." Her hair was black and white in jagged stripes, and there were a dozen silver studs in her left car.
    "Yes, miss," Danny said, and lifted his hat crookedly. "\1 a\ I ask how you knew?"
    Sheepscry said, "The inimitable Birdsong wrote about \mi."

    Pavel opened the door. "Good evening, everybody! It's cold outside, not in!"
    The ceiling stars shone specks of light around the room. Alvah Fountain, in a brocade jacket, was playing "Hey Bartender" at the piano.
    "Draw one, draw two . .