He sipped a whisky and soda, trying not to feel disappointed at the savor. As he drank, he felt eyes upon him—the bartender's. Yet the long Qesharakan reflecting glass above the bar showed him nothing unusual about his appearance. Did the bartender know who he was? How could he?
Then Emrys noticed that the man glanced from him to someone else—a girl sitting at the other end of the bar. As she met Emrys' eye, she smiled at him. Absently, with remote appreciation of her good looks, he smiled back, then returned to the contemplation of his drink. The bartender's expression deepened to amused contempt.
Emrys realized what was wrong and he could hardly keep from laughing. So intent had he been on the pursuit of his goal that he had almost lost sight of the goal itself. Deliberately, he turned his head and smiled at the girl. She promptly smiled back.
He sat down at her side. Now that he was close, her aquamarine hair showed dark at the roots, and, through the thick golden maquillage, the pores stood out on her nose. Also, she was not so very young. He laughed then, and, when she asked why, bought her a drink. After he had bought her several more, they went to her apartment—a luxurious one in a good section of town. She was not going to be cheap, but, he thought with rising anticipation, he could afford her.
However, the night was curiously unsatisfactory. For him—apparently not for the girl, because the next morning she indignantly refused his money. Evidently the experience had been something out of the ordinary for her. He could not feel it was her fault that it had been nothing for him; the lack was in him, he thought, some almost-felt emotion he could not recapture.
Promising to call her, he left, went back to his hotel room and flung himself upon the resilient burim-moss couch.
His body wasn't tired, but his head ached wearily. The liquor, naturally, on an empty stomach ... after all those years of Morethan qumesht. And then the trip. Even with the Shortmire engines—standard equipment now, of course—it had taken a long, tiring time, for Morethis was the most distant of all the civilized planets. Anyone would be exhausted after such a trip. Added to all this, the accident. There were no bruises on his body yet, but later, he knew, they would be visible.
At last he slept, or seemed to, and dreamed he was on Morethis again—or Morethis was there with him. The air thickened about him into the tangible atmosphere of the dark planet—the swirling aniline fog that never cleared. And in the midst stood Uvrei, the high priest, robed in amethyst and sable. The term high priest was vulgar as applied to him, but the nearest terrestrial equivalent to what he was.
The lips in the shockingly beautiful face parted. "How goes it, son of my spirit?" the familiar greeting rolled out, in the familiar voice, deep yet sweet, like dulcet thunder.