Robert & Jody Lynn Nye - License Invoked

"Oh, my," she said, echoing one of her elderly aunts who, it would have astonished both men to know, had lived in India with her army officer husband, and had come home from her years abroad with a book of curry recipes and a trunkful of chilies. Both men relaxed, satisfied, and Liz, with a secret smile, finished her lunch.

Walking back to the hotel, she found herself in a surprisingly pleasant mood. Lunch, with the jokes and the prank on Lloyd, had left her feeling well-fed and relaxed. Even the heat didn't seem as oppressive now. She mentioned as much to Boo, and enjoyed watching his ready laugh.

"It's the Big Easy," he said as he held the door into the hotel lobby. "That's why they call it `the city that care forgot.' Once you get into the pace of things down here, you can just kind of float along and believe that whatever happens, it will all be all right."

"Speaking of that, " Liz said, looking around, "didn't Lloyd say they were going to meet us here after lunch?"

Boo-Boo shrugged. "Well, `after lunch' isn't really a precise time down here. Hang on a second and I'll check with the desk to see if they left a message."

Despite the fact that she had just eaten, Liz found herself idly studying the posted menu for the hotel restaurant as she waited. It was extensive and delightfully varied. She guessed that Boo was right. Eating really was a major pastime down here, and the more you got into the pace of things...

"Sorry, darlin', but we've got problems," Boo declared, materializing at her elbow. "We've got to get over to the Superdome fast."

He had her out the front door and into a taxi before she could collect her wits.

"What is it?" she asked, following in his wake. "Was there a message?"

"They didn't bother to leave one for us," Boo said grimly, "but the desk clerk remembered the message that came in for Lloyd and Fionna. It seems that one of Fionna's costumes burst into flames. This time it was on stage in front of half the crew and the band."

Liz and Boo pushed their way into the mob of people crowding the barrier set up by the firefighters across the rear entrance to the Superdome. Three fire trucks, surrounded by miles of unreeled hose, flashed their revolving lights weakly in the oppressive New Orleans sunshine. An equal number of chunky white vans bearing parabolic dishes on top announced the arrival of the media. Reporters were clustered to one side by a police officer, but it was clear the cordon wouldn't last long.

Liz and Boo showed their backstage passes to the sweating security guard at the door. Very reluctantly, he let them crawl underneath the barrier, while shouldering aside a couple of rabid fans with cameras who tried to follow. After the press of the crowd, the soaring, concrete room seemed cavernously empty, all the better to pick up the noises coming from far down the passage. The roar of voices behind them grew louder. Liz spun on her heel.

"Oh, no," Liz groaned, as the media came jogging toward the entrance, turning the cameras their way. "We don't need this."

"Cheer up," Boo said, waving to the reporters over the security guards' heads. "You can tell your mama you were on American television."

"My super told me not to attract any attention!" Liz said.

"He's not here; how will he know?"

"They have cameras!" Liz said. "Our images will be on the evening news all around the world... never mind."

Boo seemed utterly unconcerned about security. He was even enjoying the attentions of the press. He waved to an attractive, blonde woman holding out a microphone. She shouted something at him, but he held his hand behind his ear, pretending he couldn't hear her. With a sigh Liz reached into her pocket for the strands of yarn she carried there, and twisted them together. The cantrip should fuzz her image sufficiently so it would be difficult to identify her. Ringwall still wouldn't be happy, but at least the damage was under control. Now to see what had caused all the to-do. She grabbed Boo's arm to turn him.

The steel-and-glass doors were pinned wide by dumpsters rolled up from the nearby loading dock. Boo hopped over lengths of hose flung everywhere in the corridor. Liz followed him, wishing she had worn lower-heeled shoes. A couple of people hung out of the dressing room doors, gawking at the two agents as they ran by. Everyone was yelling over the alarms, sirens, and crackling radios.

"Where'd it happen?" Liz called to Boo. He skipped nimbly over a twisting section of hose fifty feet ahead of her. Watching him, she stumbled on the same length and cursed her high-heeled shoes.

"Just follow the trail, I'd say," Boo said, stopping to wait for her. He grabbed her arm, and pointed ahead toward the double stage doors, braced open with crates. Half a dozen firefighters in yellow rubber coats, shouting to each other, rushed past them with extinguishers and axes. The two agents ran to catch up.

When she reached the stage, Liz stopped beside Boo to stare.

"What happened?" she asked. "With all the equipment they've brought in I thought the entire Superdome was coming down!"

After the round-shouldered cramping of the hotel and the restaurant in the Quarter, the chamber before Liz was vast. It engulfed the forty people on the raised stage at its heart like gnats in a multicolored bathtub. Yellow-skinned insects dragged long strands of hose behind them here and there through glistening puddles and heaps of overturned equipment. A bright yellow fire engine a third the size of the ones on the street sat beside the stage, its emergency lights rotating while men in coats and boots scrambled all over it. At the center of all the hubbub stood a single, tiny, forlorn, dripping figure. Two of the firefighters dragged a still writhing hose away from him. It was Thomas Fitzgibbon, the costumer, drenched to the skin. He saw the two agents and waved a hand weakly toward them, dribbling a stream of water from his sleeve.

"I can't explain it," the costumer said, when they reached him. He moved locks of his curly hair out of his eyes, and plucked at his wet shirt. He looked close to tears as he held out a scorched wisp of green cloth. "I brought Fee's dress out here on stage to see how it looked under the lights. The sleeves are gauze, like dragonfly wings. They would be so beautiful. Then suddenly, poof! Flames everywhere! It happened so quickly I didn't have time to move. I thought I'd be burned to death." The thin man's eyes were huge with fear, but he appeared to be uninjured. "And then someone pulled the fire alarm."

"Was anyone hurt?" Boo asked, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to the man. Fitzgibbon looked at the grimy square and shuddered.

"No, but the dress is ruined. I can't stand it." He turned woefully to face Patrick Jones, the publicist, who was jogging toward them up the main aisle of the theater. Fionna, dogged by a grim Preston, strode behind him. Jones started to speak, but Preston pushed by him and shook a fist in Liz's face.

"What I want to know is, you think you call this taking care of the problem?"

"Shush, Lloyd," said Jones, patiently. "Can anyone tell us what happened? You, sir?" He snagged the arm of a passing firefighter, dressed in rubber coat and boots. "Are we in any more danger? Can we stay here?"

"The fire seemed to be localized right here," the man said. His dark-skinned face gleamed with sweat, and Liz empathized with him for having to wear a heavy costume like that in the middle of the hellish heat of the city, let alone a conflagration. "We're examining the rest of the scene right now."

"Well, can't you speed it up?" Jones asked. He looked peeved, but was trying to remain reasonable. "We've got a show to do."

"Sorry, sir. These things have got to be done in the right order," the firefighter said, patiently. "You don't want hot spots to break out. Burn the place right down."