“Sure, Cap’n; but are you sure you want to let them boys in here after the way they jumped you an’ all?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he beat me to it. “Fergit I asked ya that, Cap’n, pleasir. You ain’t been wrong yet.”
“It’s O.K., Thomas,” I said. “There won’t be any more trouble.”
EPILOGUE
On the eve of the twentieth anniversary of Reunion Day, a throng of well-heeled celebrants filled the dining room and overflowed onto the terraces of the Star Tower Dining Room, from whose 5,700 foot height above the beaches, the Florida Keys, a hundred miles to the south, were visible on clear days.
The Era reporter stood beside the vast glass entry way surveying the crowd, searching for celebrities from whom he might elicit bits of color to spice the day’s transmission.
At the far side of the room, surrounded by chattering admirers, stood the Ambassador from the New Terran Federation; a portly, graying, jolly ex-Naval officer. A minor actress passed at close range, looking the other way. A cabinet member stood at the bar talking earnestly to a ball player, ignoring a group of hopeful reporters and fans.
The Era stringer, an experienced hand, passed over the hard pressed VIP’s near the center of the room and started a face-by-face check of the less gregarious diners seated at obscure tables along the sides of the room.
He was in luck; the straight-backed gray-haired figure in the dark civilian suit, sitting alone at a tiny table in an alcove, caught his eye. He moved closer, straining for a clear glimpse through the crowd. Then he was sure. He had the biggest possible catch of the day in his sights; Admiral of Fleets Frederick Greylorn.