Tylene used a friendly hand to steer Bob/Seas through the backstage crowd, looking for the director. He/she alternated between Cecilia eyeing up the models like a kid ogling candy, and Bob looking ill at ease, feeling nervous and out of place.

"Ah! Geraldi! There you are!" Tylene exclaimed upon finding the man.

She gave him Bob's composite card. "Steph will be your dresser," Geraldi said, giving Bob a discerning look.

Tylene spoke while the director read the card. "Bob will be fourth in the Grand Parade, before Petru and after James."

"Ah! Okay!" Geraldi said with distraction. He flipped the card back to Tylene and dug through an inside pocket, pulling out a pair of wayfarer eyeglasses, their thick frames a light transculent blue.

"You'll look better in these," he said, putting them on Bob.

"I don't need glasses," he said, confused. "My eyesight is fine."

Geraldi placed a hand on Bob, taking over for Tylene the act of steering him through the crowd. They headed towards a backstage room, further into the chaos.

"They're not real," Geraldi said of the glasses. "The lenses are plain glass. They make you look young, which you need. And you look smarter too."

Bob began missing Tylene, while his wife used his eyes to explore. My gosh! Ceclia exclaimed, seeing gorgeous people everywhere. Did he call us stupid?

Enjoy yourself, Bob demanded. It's why we're here.

Cecilia continued ogling. Guys are so lucky. You get to look. Women can't. She sensed her husband's confusion, so she clarified. Girls aren't allowed to check out guys. It makes us look desperate. Bob thought to disagree, so Cecilia defended herself. A pretty girl gets eyed by a guy every time one walks by. If we look back, they think we're available.

A significant number of gay men responded to Bob/Seas' stares, driving home the point. Bob felt as if he were already posing on the catwalk.

Geraldi handed Bob off to Steph in a backstage room. A second model was also there, getting ready for the show.

Oh! Cecilia said of the model. He is really cute! She had her husband give him a sly smile, almost winking along with it. Clearly not gay, the man smiled back.

Knock it off, Bob demanded, taking greater control over his actions.

Okay. But you said to have fun!

"You're late," Steph said while working to clothe the other model.

Stolen novel; please report.

No we're not, Cecilia thought.

"No we're not," Bob said simultaneously.

Steph griped without pause."Get undressed. You're on after Marc."

Bob looked around for a place to do as Steph commanded. The available floor space in the room was tiny as a shower stall. Shelves of accessories and racks of clothes cluttered up the room.

Steph sensed Bob's hesitation, and quit fussing with Marc. He cleared off a folding chair near a tall thin locker.

"Put your street clothes in there," Steph said. "Your first outfit is this."

Steph swatted at clothing in a clear plastic bag hanging on a rack. After doffing his shoes and pants and outer shirt, Bob opened the bag. Inside was a doublet waistcoat, looking straight out of seventeenth century Europe, but colored a modern flesh beige. A triangular stomacher with a simple collar also hung on the same hanger, meant to be buttoned in along the bottom of the doublet. It had as decoration an inordinate amount of beadwork, with large square rustic gold inlays strung on tassels that hung past the waistline.

Accompanying this was a pair of bombasted men's hose, Venetian red and shiny. They were fluted and pleated and stuffed with enough tulle to make Bob's butt three times its size. He stared at the outfit in confusion, scarcely knowing how to get it off the hangar, much less put it on.

Steph stopped fussing with Marc's clothing and stepped in to help Bob, tut-tutting the whole time. "Ach, here!" he said, removing the stomacher from the hanger and placing it on the chair. He undid the doublet's fifteen bronze buttons and put it on Bob.

Now clucking like a mother hen, Steph spoke in soothing tones. "We button up a few of these," he said of the bronze buttons. "Then put on the inlay."

He placed the stomacher in place below Bob's breast, instructing him to hold it in place by jiggling it against his tummy. After complying, Steph hooked it into the doublet via two rows of tiny shank buttons. He fastened the inlay's collar to Bob's neck with a strap assembly in the back, then finished buttoning the doublet.

He fussed with the outfit's lacy high collar and its long puffed sleeves. "Lovely," Steph said to himself. Then with a frown, he examined Bob's left wrist. "You have to remove this," he said of Bob's bitwatch, as it interfered with the lay of the sleeves.

Steph deftly removed the bitwatch, placing it on a shelf in the locker. "I need that," Bob protested, now having no way to contact Tylene or his brainboard therapist.

"You can't wear it with this outfit. It goes against the flow." Steph cooed sweet and calm to Bob, fussing again with the sleeves and collars. "You'll be fine, Love. I'll take of you."

Steph took the fluted men's hose off its hanger, undoing the clasp in the back. Then, staring at Bob's feet, he stopped dead in his tracks.

"You're not wearing grey socks," he said to Bob's white ones. "You're supposed to have grey socks."

Bob huffed to scold himself, realizing his mistake. "I left them in my car."

In calm panic, Steph searched the room. "I don't have any socks. You're supposed to have the socks."

Bob quickly put on his street pants. "I'll go and get them. It'll just take a minute."

In agreement, Steph shoved Bob towards the door to the room. "Go! Hurry up! Right now!"

Bob found a rear exit door that led to the convention hall's parking structure. How could we be so stupid? Cecilia thought into his brain, inferring that it was his fault.

Bob defended himself. I asked you to take care of things.

I gave the socks to you after making sure you put on the right underwear. I expected you to put them on too.

Well I didn't, Bob thought, shaming himself.

He got the socks from his car and headed back towards the hall. The door he had used to enter the parking structure self-locked upon closing, so he sprinted to another door near the front of the building. It didn't lead backstage, but instead to a deserted public hallway.

Unsure of where to go, Bob stopped dead in his tracks. A problem of much greater concern filled him with heartstopping dread.

Seas? he thought to his wife.

His brainboard link to her was gone. Without a bitwatch on his wrist, he was unable to contact anyone.

Where did you go?