The Demon and the City

haunted. This evening, with the temple looming above the buildings around, Robin had no problem in believing in those rumors. She could almost hear the place whispering to itself. Resolutely, Robin turned her back on its dark bulk and made her way along the litter-strewn downtown platform.
    At the bottom of the platform steps, a snick of an alleyway led into Mherei Street. She hurried through, and found herself in the forbidding confines of the old town. They had been here how long, these houses, that temple?—the remnants of the little settlement that had made way for Singapore Three. The narrow streets rambled about the central spine of Mherei, black glass and dark wood, imported or grown in the southern plantations, angled, charmed roofs to fend away bad luck. Since these early glorious days, Mherei was rather low on luck, however, getting seedy despite the solid old houses. It was very much the bohemian quarter now, the haunt of artists, creatrixes, writers and the pharmo-technicians who bracketed themselves alongside, fellow creators of the mind's visions. Deveth had loved it here, though she complained incessantly about the infighting and spite. It was a community, despite its closed, cold appearance now and the dark temple squatting at its heart.
    Robin did not belong here, and she knew it. She had visited parties once or twice, with Deveth, and had made herself unpopular. These were the spoiled children of the wealthy, Deveth's friends, the ones who didn't need to work, who could afford to play out their fantasies of Paris or Vienna. Robin had worked since she was fifteen, down in the mining labs in Bharulay and then scoring, making it into Paugeng. She could never afford to live here. Deveth, sardonic, had watched her make a fool of herself arguing with a neosocialist at the last party they had attended together.
    "It's all very well for your friends," Robin had said later, in frustration. "They're living in a—a cushion."
    "This isn't an affluent neighborhood, Robin. None of them are very rich."
    Deveth lit a cigarette as she spoke and the brief light flared up around her face, the harsh cheekbones and hawk nose illuminated and then gone, back into the dim, comfortable light of her apartment. She sounded loftily understanding, as though Robin couldn't really be expected to comprehend these sophisticated ideas.
    "Don't be stupid," Robin said with contempt, forgetting now how eager she had been to impress this glamorous woman. "Your families are."
    She saw the expression on Deveth's face change from languid amusement to wariness: mustn't wind the peasant up too far. Robin had never criticized her before. Until that night, she had behaved as though Deveth were quite perfect.
    "I'm sorry you feel that way," she'd told Robin, neutrally. "Maybe, it isn't meant. Maybe we should end it here." And then off-course, Robin, stricken, had stammered apologies while Deveth, sad-eyed, watched.
    And now, Robin thought, in a fury, she's probably just dumped me in favor of some little sweetheart whose dad lives in Meriden, no doubt, who stays up all night and talks about her art . She stormed along, realizing suddenly that she had gone past Deveth's house. She retraced her steps and made her way into the entrance hallway. Deveth had given her the code to the main door, but not the apartment itself: not the key to her heart.
    The hall opened out into a wide atrium, once the fashionable home of palms and a carp pool, but now full of old divans arranged in a rough square. The air was musty, stained with old incense and the breath of dampness. The pool had been drained, and now featured as a sort of conversation pit, studded with candle ends. Robin eyed it with distaste. They had held the party here. Ghosts of the young and pretty stared at her from the rotting divans, mocking, smiling at Deveth Sardai's bit of rough.
    "Are you looking for something?" An uncertain voice came out of the gloom.
    Robin jumped.
    "I'm a friend of Deveth Sardai's . . . I came to see if she was in."
    "Oh, it's you," the voice said, without enthusiasm. She came further into the wan light from the street and Robin recognized her: Tarai Alba, who lived on the floor above Deveth. She had been at the party, too; Robin remembered her in a steely sheath gown, blonde hair on a lattice of struts and pins. Every time she met Robin's eyes, she had given her a thin, little smile. She had once, Robin knew, been Deveth's lover, and probably still was. Robin