"I'll try to think of something to jog your memory next time. How about getting together?"
"Well—I don't have very long," said Thar hesitantly. "If you could come over for a few minutes—"
Hockley had the jolting feeling that Waldon Thar would just as soon pass up the opportunity for their meeting. Some of the enthusiasm went out of his voice. "There's a good all-night inter-planetary eatery and bar on the field there. I'll be along in fifteen minutes."
"Fine," said Thar, "but please try not to be late."
On the way to the field, Hockley wondered about the change that had apparently taken place in Thar. Of course, he had changed, too—perhaps for much the worse. But Thar sounded like a stuffed shirt now, and that is the last thing Hockley would have expected. In school, Thar had been the most irreverent of the whole class of irreverents, denouncing in ecstasy the established and unproven lore, riding the professors of unsubstantiated hypotheses. Now—well, he didn't sound like the Thar Hockley knew.
He took a table and sat down just as Thar entered the dining room. The latter's broad smile momentarily removed Hockley's doubts. The smile hadn't changed. And there was the same expression of devilish disregard for the established order. The same warm friendliness. It baffled Hockley to understand how Thar could have failed to remember Earth was his home.
Thar mentioned it as he came up and took Hockley's hand. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "It was stupid to forget that Earth meant Sherman Hockley."
"I know how it is. I should have written. I guess I'm the one who owes a letter."
"No, I think not," said Thar.
They sat on opposite sides of a small table near a window and ordered drinks. On the field they could see the vast, shadowy outline of the Ryke vessel.