"I wouldn't know as to that, sir."
"Lived here long yourself?"
"Oh, yes, sir." The waiter's expression showed disapproval. "Would there be anything else, sir?"
"I'm a newcomer here," Brett said. "I wonder if you could tell me—"
"Excuse me, sir." The waiter was gone. Brett poked at the mashed potatoes. Quizzing golems was hopeless. He would have to find out for himself. He turned to look at the fat man. As Brett watched he took a large handkerchief from a pocket, blew his nose loudly. No one turned to look. The orchestra played softly. The couples danced. Now was as good a time as any ...
Brett rose, crossed to the other's table. The man looked up.
"Mind if I sit down?" Brett said. "I'd like to talk to you."
The fat man blinked, motioned to a chair. Brett sat down, leaned across the table. "Maybe I'm wrong," he said quietly, "but I think you're real."
The fat man blinked again. "What's that?" he snapped. He had a high petulant voice.
"You're not like the rest of them. I think I can talk to you. I think you're another outsider."