"No." He realized his curtness and added, "It is the Song of Parting for lovers. Very personal."
He found that he was still holding Leila's hand, and dropped it hastily. Ellis, who had risen high in Diplomatic for good reasons, stepped competently into the breach.
"Night duty calls," Ellis said. "Let's be off."
A diplomatic limousine without insignia took them to a nightclub large enough, and dim enough, to promise anonymity. On the way a quick summer shower left the streets wet and glistening and turned the night into a many-scented freshness that was sheer fantasy to one accustomed to the sterile air of sealed underground ways.
The rain had ended when they left the car, but the brief moment outside, under a vast openness of night sky empty except for dispersing clouds and speeding white moon, struck Mirrh Yahn y Cona suddenly cold with too-familiar panic.
They had found their table before anyone spoke.
"Agoraphobia?" Ellis said, in frowning concern. "I should think you'd be conditioned against that, with all the time they've had to prepare you."
Leila Anderson put an impulsive hand on the Martian's.
"I'm a touch claustrophobic, so I know how it must be." She shivered. "To be buried under all those tons and tons of—"