Roger Smith felt oddly off-balance. A slight frown crossed his face as he regarded his companion.

"Is there something wrong?" Dorothy's question startled him. She had been watching the dancers so intently that he hadn't thought she was paying attention to him at all.

"Not at all," he lied smoothly. "I was just thinking about one of my cases, and I shouldn't be. We're supposed to be having a pleasant evening."

"I like the music very much," she said, her eyes returning to the dance floor.

"The band isn't bad," he said, trying to put the uneasiness aside. "Would you like to give it a try?" He gestured towards the dance floor.

"I'd like to watch a little longer, if you don't mind," she gave him the barest hint of a smile. "I never tried dancing to this kind of music before."

"You won't have any problem," he assured her. "It's one of those things that's easiest to learn by doing." A short while later, as he was trying and failing to think of some interesting topic that might be enjoyable to both of them, the band segued from a foxtrot to something slow and romantic. "This one would be perfect," he stood and reached for her hand. "Shall we?"

She accepted and he led her out on to the floor, glad to be free of the necessity of conversation. He'd been as graceless as a tongue-tied schoolboy, and if they had sat there much longer, he would have found himself reduced to making banal remarks about the weather.

As he guided her through the basic steps of the dance, the uneasy feeling returned. He pushed it down again, forcing himself to concentrate on his partner. She had, as he'd expected, caught on very quickly, and even seemed to be enjoying herself. "You're a very good teacher," she said as the waltz flowed into a faster number and they easily followed.

"You're a very graceful student," he said, trying not to look surprised. Had R. Dorothy Wayneright just given him a compliment? Surely some kind of insult would quickly follow.

Instead, she smiled again, the corners of her mouth tilting upward into a distinct if subtle curve. "Thank you," she said.

He was silent for a moment as he navigated them past another couple on the increasingly crowded dance floor. He was growing increasingly annoyed with himself. It was ridiculous that he, Roger Smith, Paradigm City's top Negotiator, was acting like some callow youth, complete with sweaty palms and butterflies in his stomach.

It was only a dress, a few yards of fabric. Very fine fabric, no doubt, skillfully tailored and attractively presented. Still, it was merely a dress, and he was merely dancing with a girl... a woman... who he had lived with for several years, a woman who annoyed almost as much as she amused.

How was it possible for such a small thing to turn the world upside-down? It was simply... preposterous!


"He what?" Jason Beck was hard-pressed to control his laughter. Oh, this was marvelous, better than he could have arranged it if he'd tried! The only thing that could have made it better would have been him being there to see it himself. Roger Smith, brawling in the street like a common thug over an insult to his android lover! "And the Military Police showed up?"

"Took them both away," his informer said. "I thought of offering the pretty red-head a ride--they told her to go home and they'd get her statement tomorrow--but I remembered you were offering cash for any dirt anyone could dig up on that Smith character, and I thought you'd be interested in hearing this one."

"You thought right," Jason peeled off two twenties and a ten from the roll of bills in his pocket. "I appreciate your taking the time to stop by."

The man pocketed the cash and nodded politely. "I saw the light was on so I took a chance that you were still up. I'll stop by again if I hear anything more."

"Do that," Jason said as he escorted his visitor to the door. A few moments later he was back at his desk, but it was soon clear that he wasn't going to get any more work done tonight. Every time he tried to concentrate, the image of Roger Smith being hauled away by the Military Police intruded into his thoughts, leaving him choking with laughter. He'd get it under control for a few minutes, try to focus on the notes he'd made and then he'd be chortling again, delighting in the idea of Crow Boy finally getting some of the comeuppance that he had coming to him.

He finally stacked the papers in a neat pile and lit a cigarette. It was obvious that his programming alterations were having at least some effect--while Smith wouldn't have put up with insults to Dorothy before Beck had implemented his plan, he wouldn't have handled it in such a. primitive fashion.

It was the best plan he'd ever come up with. As he shut the lights and headed towards his bed, he allowed himself to speculate on R. Dorothy Wayneright's reaction to Roger's fist fight. If the program worked the way he'd intended it, she'd be grateful for her Black Knight's gallant rescue.


"Hold still," Dorothy frowned as Roger squirmed uncomfortably. "If you don't let me get this taped, your eyebrow will never look the same."

He squirmed some more, wishing that Norman had been the one to come down to the station to bail him out. Bad enough to suffer the humiliation of being sucker-punched and laid out by that low-life, and in front of the one person who would never let him forget it. Still, he'd recovered and given the SOB exactly what he deserved. "Ow!" he protested as he felt the sting of antiseptic.

"If you don't hold still I'm going to call Norman," Dorothy threatened. "I don't think he wants to patch you up at three in the morning."

"He's done it before," Roger said tiredly, adjusting the ice pack he was holding against the bruise on his chin.

"He needs his sleep," she gave him a stern glare, carefully applying a neat row of adhesive strips to the sagging gash along his brow-bone. "It looked a lot worse than it was," she observed as she blotted the cut with some more antiseptic and stepped back to examine her work. "I don't think it will scar. Do you need help with your shirt? We need to get some cold water on it before the bloodstains set."

"I'm fine," he protested, but the shoulder he'd landed on was aching badly enough that he was glad for the assistance. "I didn't bleed on your dress, did I?"

"I'm not worried about the dress," Dorothy said, her fingertips lightly pressing on his shoulder. "Does that hurt?"

"No, I think it's just bruised," Roger said, wincing. "I'll feel better after a good night's sleep."

"You'll probably feel worse tomorrow," she predicted.

"It wasn't that bad," he said, although he knew she was right. He was surprised at her forbearance--he had been expecting at least a lecture, if not outright disgust. "I'm sorry about what happened," he told her.

She gave him a resigned look. "I wish you'd found a less conspicuous way to deal with him, but I thought it over when I was waiting for them to release you at the police station, and you were right--you couldn't ignore the things he was saying, it would only have encouraged him to be even nastier."

He raised an eyebrow and immediately groaned as the adhesive strips tugged on the wound. "You're not mad at me?"

"I'm a little annoyed, but I don't know what else you could have done," she said after considering it for a moment. "He didn't fight you fairly, either."

"He was a coward," Roger said, stifling a yawn.

"I suppose he was," Dorothy said. "Will you need any help getting ready for bed?"

"No, I'll be fine," he said, getting up from the chair. "My pajamas are a lot easier to deal with than a dress shirt."

"Good night, then, Roger Smith," she said. "It was a nice evening despite how it ended."

He stood there with his mouth hanging open as she disappeared down the stairs leading to the laundry room.