The Dancing Dragoness was going to be one of the most prestigious clubs in Star City, perhaps the most prestigious. Not because it was particularly expensive, of course, or because only the most prestigious or popular of people in the station were invited to attend; there were people of all kinds and classes who were coming to the new club's opening night. No, it was going to be prestigious because it was going to be good, and everyone who followed those kinds of things in the station knew about it. The best music, the best drinks, and the best DJs, whether native to the station or imported from farther places in the universe, had been obtained for the grand glitz-gala that had been planned. The dancing would go on all night, and everyone who was anyone would be there.

So, of course, Deborah made certain to attend. Dressed in her finest club-gear-- shining red, glittering gold, and velvety black, all skin-tight but for gauzy folds at her elbows, and cut both low and high to display plenty of skin-- with her hair loose and curling attractively down her back, she slipped through the massed people, fingers already twitching and hips swaying in time with the urge to be out doing what she had come for. A tantalizing beat pounded over the white noise of the press of people who packed the fledgling club's multi-level dance floors and crowded its bars and booths; you couldn't even make out the melody or words, if there were any, unless you were near enough to the speakers on each dance platform. That didn't matter, though, because a beat was all a veteran clubber needed.

"Deb! Yo, Deb'rah!"

Shouting over the din, a sandy-haired young man was weaving through the crowd towards her, towing his date behind him. Deborah graced him with a heavy-lidded smile, and he flushed with pleasure. She knew this one, though his name escaped her; he was just like all the others, captivated by a glance and the sway of a body in movement. His date, though, she remembered more clearly, and young Tyla didn't look at all happy to be tugged along, much less tugged along towards Deborah herself. Very few young women wanted their dates to notice Deborah, and Deborah couldn't really blame them.

"Should have expected someone like you to be at something like this," Tyla shouted, trying to make herself heard over the sounds of a club in full swing.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Deborah drawled.

"Good to see you!" the boy yelled; Deborah wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her, but he had plowed on, anyway.

Favoring him with an appreciative look-- he was an attractive fellow, after all-- her next comment couldn't be mistaken, even though it was impossible to hear: "Likewise," she murmured. Then, before Tyla could pout for Deborah flirting with her date, she raised her voice and added, "If you'll excuse me? The floor is calling."

"Maybe we could catch a dance later!" the boy cried after her, but that wasn't really what he'd meant; when it came to Deborah Falken, boys assumed "dance" meant "sex". Besides, she had already drifted away, paying him no more attention and certainly no more words. Tyla could occupy him; she wasn't ready for the kind of exercise he wanted. Yet. All Deborah wanted, right now, was to dance.

Before she could do so, she had to put up with four more such interceptions, all surprisingly similar in content: the male approached, drawing along whoever he brought to the gala, if anyone, and tried to pose and preen to catch her attention; Deborah stroked their egos a bit, then slipped away. Sometimes she knew them, sometimes she didn't; they all seemed to know her, no matter who they were. That was a side effect of being the daughter of the Public Minister of the city-station; as well-traveled through the clubs, dancemeets, and bar-restaurants of the city-station as Deborah was; and having slept with more of those posing, preening boys than she could remember and been to the parties of most of their dates-- sometimes at the same time.

Finally she escaped the places where one would drink, talk, and otherwise be social, finding her way at last to the places where there was only music, beat, and moving bodies. Deborah might have been expert at matters social and sexual, even came to enjoy them when she partook in them, but dance was what she actually loved, what had started it all. On the floor, it didn't matter who's daughter she was, how many people knew her, or who she had shared a bed with; all that mattered was rhythm, and following it. She went through partners like sand, holding them a moment then letting them slip through her fingers: male, female, interested or not, attractive or not. Sometimes she danced alone, hands in the air and eyes shut with pleasure in the movement. Once in a while she paused for air and a drink of something, usually from someone else's offered glass and accompanied by heavy flirting or a little petting, then she would go back in, and forget about life for a while longer.

It was, of course, no surprise when she found herself drawn off the floor and into one of the alcoves down the dark halls in the back. The designer of the Dancing Dragoness had been clever, including plenty of places for privacy. So many bodies so close together on the dance floors led to other things, and Deborah, veteran though she was, was hardly immune. Nor did she want to be. Sex was a different kind of dance-- not as heady a one, one that must be shared with someone else, but still with the right kind of rhythm. A few moments, an hour, forever passed by, and then she was back on the floor again, leaving her temporary lover and finding the mesh and music again. Someone claimed her for some close dancing, another someone stole her away for something that was only a step away from horizontal, someone else flitted her into another private room-- and once she escaped again, it would start again with the pounding of the bass beat and the dazzling lights of the floor. This, if anything, was what Deborah lived for.

When she slipped in at the beginning of the day-shift, both giddy and exhausted and just a little drunk, she ignored her father's stern look-- yet also exasperated and intimidated look, for his disapproval always warred with his embarrassment at his wild daughter's behavior-- as he fumbled with his tie, preparing to start the day that Deborah had just finished. Ignoring look, tie, and his blush, she gave him a peck on the cheek, and continued inside to her own room, humming and swaying still to music which was now only in her head. She might have been humming still as she collapsed onto bed, only partially undressed, but sleep stole up on her and took her more completely than any lover could ever hope to, and Deborah let it, falling into oblivion, at least for a few hours.