Restoree by Anne McCaffrey Page B

at the fascinating stores, trying to imagine the purpose of this or that; trying on in my mind the gorgeous dresses. I decided that the jewels I wore were better than many on display and my dress more becoming.
    Thirsty, I stopped at a beverage stand of which there were many, some with the air of permanence, some obviously holiday-rigged.
    When the counterman looked expectantly for my order, I realized I couldn’t ask for lemonade or Coke. For a moment I could only stare at him idiotically.
    Suddenly, hands covered my eyes. Frantic, I grabbed at them.
    “Guess who?” an eager young voice whispered in my ear.
    Thinking it was only an Eclipse game, I relaxed.
    “I’m not good at guessing-games,” I replied finally.
    The hands dropped as if my skin had burned them.
    “I beg, I beg your pardon, lady,” a stammering voice apologized.
    I turned and looked up a long expanse of white over-shirt before I came to the boyish face. There was a shocked surprise in his eyes and an appeal for understanding the boy did not expect to find. He was about sixteen, I guessed, and his frame had shot up before he could accumulate the flesh to cover it. It gave him an angular awkwardness; a bag-of-bones appearance to his clothes and an obvious inferiority. His gray eyes regarded me with an unspoken plea not to scorn him. He reminded me so of my brother, Seth . . . and someone else I couldn’t place . . . but he did remind me of Seth at his gawky stage. It was this quality, this puppyish wistfulness that caught my sympathy.
    “I mistook you, Lady Searcher. Really I did and I was so pleased the Lady Fara . . . I mean . . .” and he trailed off aimlessly.
    Quickly I put my hand on his arm to reassure him, for he seemed about to take off into the crowd.
    “No harm done. This is Eclipse, isn’t it? And, truly, I am flattered to be mistaken for the Lady Fara.”
    A brief eagerness flared in his eyes and he looked as if he were about to smile, but his face turned unnaturally mature.
    “Please, buy me a drink and think no more of it,” I said quickly. “Something . . . light,” I added, indicating two drunken carousers with distaste.
    The smile flickered again and was replaced with a guarded expression.
    “Two cornades,” he said to the counterman, tossing a coin to the fellow.
    “Thank you, lord, have a safe Eclipse.”
    The young boy handed me my drink with the polished grace of a courtier, totally out of character for his age.
    It was a fruit concoction, tart and cold, and just what I had my mouth set for. We stood at one side of the crowded stand, saying nothing because I could think of nothing to say.
    At the opposite end of this bazaar mall, there was a sudden commotion, indistinguishable shouts, a startled milling of people and then a trio pushed into view. They were not very sober but not drunk enough to extenuate their obstreperous actions. The first man, a rough enormous fellow, charged with the ferocity of an angry gorilla, his long arms pushing way past those who did not move aside quickly enough. He looked from right to left, head thrust forward, bellowing at the top of his voice.
    “Maxil, where is that little runt? Maxil, come here or I’ll break you. Maxil? Maxil!” His two companions followed, likewise yelling for the missing Maxil, stopping people and demanding to know where this Maxil was.
    I turned to my young man and found him missing from my side, just as the gorilla charged up to the stand, beckoning violently to the counterman.
    “He was with this lady a moment ago,” the man volunteered, not looking at me, but obviously frightened.
    The lout turned on me, his liquor-heavy breath offensive, his sweating body odorous. He put his hands on my shoulders and started to shake me.
    “Get your filthy hands off me, you stupid bully,” I said, seething with anger at this insult. “I said, get your filthy hands off me,” I repeated distinctly in the quiet that had fallen on the mall. There is some