"Who gives a shit what the surface track is?" asked Kalypso. "It could be your Aunt Frieda playing 'Love Me Tender' on the accordion, and they would still love me." The beautiful intersexual half-reclined on a marina-blue velvet chaise.
       But producers, as a rule, didn't get it. "You're losing the mainstream," Big Mike complained.
        "Wake up, Mikey. That mainstream is nothing but a trickle," Chari said. "No one loads albums for listening anymore." With her tapered fingers, Chari wove Kalypso's tresses into slender braids. She drew golden beads from a box and threaded them onto the ebony plaits.
        I sat on the sofa with Scaler, who doodled caricatures of the producer on his magna-slate. The graffiti-like scrawls emphasized Mike's lumpy face and buggy eyes. He'd flash the image toward Chari and Kalypso when Mike wasn't looking, erase it, then begin again. Chari and I made little effort to muffle our snickers, but Kalypso allowed only the barest hint of a smile to flicker across hir coolly composed expression.
        Kalypso dismissed Big Mike with a wave. "My ship awaits," ze said.
       The magic words. Hir "ship" was a chamber at the top of the stairs whence all musical mystery voyages commenced.
       Chari and I followed Kalypso on a slow procession to the sanctuary atop the mansion's tower. Chari continued to fuss over Kalypso's hair, but I knew it was just an excuse to touch hir. By the end of the day, one of us would be dismissed.
       Fortunately, Kalypso needed me.

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