Beside her sat a sleek, mustached young man in ruffled lavender shirt and pink tights, his fingers covered with rings.
"Sit down and eat with me, musician," invited Meta. Somewhat dubiously, Cornel took a seat at her right, across the table from the beruffled escort.
"Meta, I wish you wouldn't demean yourself by taking up with tramps and guttersnipes," objected her companion, wrinkling his nose.
"Leave me, Passo," she ordered, waving an imperious hand. "Why should I sup with painted popinjays when I can adore genius?"
Passo flushed and his mouth fell open. But he arose and slunk quietly away.
"Now, musician," said Meta, leaning over the table so that her powdered breasts brushed the glassware, "tell me, what was that last number you played?"
"One of my own compositions," he said diffidently. The odor of food was too much for him, and he leaned across the table to appropriate Passo's untouched salad. "Its name is Wind in the Canals."
"It should be Le Vent dans les Canals," she said. "You should title your compositions in French—they will be more fashionable."
"I don't know French," he said, munching a stick of celery. "We don't speak French on Mars."
She laughed, a laugh like the music of his playing.