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Finally I managed to tune in a prehistoric station that was doing a retrospective of turn-of-the-century music. Snapping off the trideo portion, I let the sounds wash over me. I confess I liked the older flat-screen stuff: Nine Inch Nails, Cold Bodies, Sister Girl’s Straight Jacket. Nothing like a little atonality with my angst.
    Every so often I would glance over at Caimbeul. Excuse me, Harlequin. I don’t think that name will ever come trippingly to my lips. And I hate what it represents even more.
    Yes, I know you think you understand him. You might even think you know him well, but you don’t. I’ve known him for longer than either of us cares to remember. And he wasn’t as you see him now. That stupid painted face. Though he wasn’t what many would call handsome, I have always found him attractive. Maybe even beautiful. Oh, I know that sounds peculiar, but there is an aspect of ugliness that is so shocking and strange it becomes beauty.
    And his wild hair, all gold and brown woven together. He’d let it grow long again, which I like. But he insisted on pulling it back in that ridiculous pony tail. It made me want to sneak up behind him with a scissors and cut it off. Either you wear it long or you don’t was my way of thinking.
    His hands lay easily on the wheel. I knew they were smooth and feminine with calluses on the fingertips. There was a hint of yellow between the first and second fingers where he held those Gaullets he smoked. And he smelled of tobacco and clean linen.
    And I wondered whether he remembered those sorts of things about me. The little details that only come from intimacy.
    “Will you turn that off?” he asked.
    “I like it.” I replied as I leaned forward and nudged the volume button up a little.
    “I know.” he said. “You always did have terrible taste in music.”
    “No, I’ve always had broad taste in music. Unlike you who only seem to like classical music and the occasional jazz group.”
    “I prefer to think of it as a refined taste.”
    “I know you do.”
    We didn’t say anything else and I went back to watching the kilometers slip by as the rain streamed across the windows.
    * * *
    Edinburgh was crowded. Old ladies were crying and hugging uncomfortable-looking teens. Suits hurried by, oblivious to everything but their own sense of self-importance. I've never been too fond of corporate thinking. That whole bigger is better drek was what had led to most of the problems in the world, as far as I could tell. Okay, indoor plumbing was the one exception to this rule, but otherwise . . .
    We found the gate for the flight to Tír na nÓg. As we came around the corner, I saw that the usual security measures were in place. All our luggage was going to be searched. There would be the usual weapons scan and the endless procession of bureaucratic red tape. Like I said: corporate thinking.
    The worst of it was that once we got to the Tir, all this would begin again.
    As we approached the head of the line, the elven official looked up from the display screen where he was sliding credsticks to check documentation. He gestured us forward, ignoring several people ahead of us.
    “May I see your passports and visas?” he said. He tried to keep it polite, but you could tell he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
    We handed over our sticks with our IDs and travel permits on them, and he asked us to step into a small room off the main corridor. As the door shut behind us I could hear the other passengers whispering to each other. You could cut the paranoia with a knife.
    “Is there a problem?” Caimbeul asked.
    The security drone didn’t answer as he sat down at a display on the far side of a small formica table in the center of the room. The walls were a dirty white and one of the fluorescent lights flickered on and off erratically. I read his name off his badge: Clovis Blackeye. No wonder he was an officious prig. With a name like that I’d be a drekhead, too.
    He was gaunt and