That was a good question, Stan thought. Just where was Clark? He glanced around the room. The average rooming house cell, the kind so many people on this planet seemed to live in. A bureau and an unmade bed, the blankets rumpled and twisted....
There was a linen runner on top of the bureau and on top of that was a glass, neatly wrapped in cellophane. He walked over and barely touched it, intent on moving the glass to get a better look at a photograph behind it.
The cellophane cracked and crumbled at his touch.
The photograph behind it wasn't important, Stan thought. A photo of a ship on which Clark had been a crew member.
What was important was the cellophane that had crumbled at his touch and the dusty linen runner which hung in tattered shreds where it overlapped the top of the bureau.
As if the weight of the cloth had become too much for the strength of the linen thread.
Old.
Incredibly old.
Tanner was standing by the window, looking out. When he moved back, his arm touched the curtain. The curtain collapsed and powdered, sifting down to the dusty carpet.