"Who said anything about travel? When you travel you move along all the time, and the trees and the mountains and towns rush past and you're going somewhere. I'll take travel any day—but this lost space hospital...."
Avery tried to be jovial. "Good thing we're old enough to be used to waiting. This would drive the young ones crazy."
"Driving me crazy too. Just waiting for the chance to be farmers and go on waiting for crops."
Avery edged out of the niche, although the watcher was obviously not done. "All settled down waiting to settle down. Coffee without sugar, night without end, months without news...." Avery was thirty feet down the corridor now. "... and no new audience to listen to all the swell gripes I sit here working out." His voice lost its flatness, became full and genial. "I'm the best damn griper in this damn outfit," he bragged, "I'm the...." (Noting Avery's absence) "... oh what the hell!" He brought his gaze back to the window to the stars.
Avery stopped at a door and rapped sharply. "Who is it?" "Elbert Avery." "Just a moment." He waited. "You can come in now." He turned the knob and opened the door. Angela Claflin half turned on the bench before her dressing table to face him. Her arms were raised and her hands were busy at the back of her head as she replaced the last of the bone pins in a great knot of hair black as a crow's wing. Tweezers, uncovered lipstick, rouge and powder boxes still lay on the table.
"Oh, Mustah Avery," in a voice a little high, a little twittery, "we missed you so at the pahty. We wuh so gay. Competition fo dancin' pahtnehs was jes furious and I was so hopin you'd come."
"I was on duty—couldn't make it."
"Oh I think that's jes cruel not to let jes everybody have some of the fun! You kin dance with me afteh suppah tomorr' night and we'll pretend the pahty's still on."
"I'll see." He stepped back toward the door.
"But Mistuh Avery, you didn' come hyar jes to listen to me chattuh. Is theh somethin you wanted?"