State was still mauve when Channing left. Nick was shaking his head. Julie clucked her tongue, trying to dilute outrage with sympathy.
For Channing, it was all some senseless nightmare. First Ellen, then State, Julie and Nick. He took the slidestair down to the street and the brisk autumn air cleared the confusion from his head so that he knew; for the first time clearly, that he was out of a job and—temporarily at best—out of a wife. If Qui Dor had seen all this coming, Qui Dor had not mentioned it. But Channing suspected Qui Dor's ability to read minds depended on close range perception. Besides, Qui Dor had made it plain he would tell Channing nothing more than he had disclosed at their original interview.
Which left Channing one remaining avenue of information.
"Is the spacesuit adjusted satisfactory, sir?" The Denebian lacky said un-gramatically, his stentorian voice booming above the static of his own spacesuit radio.
"Yes," Channing told him.
The small saurian creature stood on a platform and dropped a plexi-glass helmet in place over Channing's head. Air hissed in and Channing asked: "Can you hear me?"
"Most assured, sir. The radio is fine."
Denebians breathed a mixture of methane and ammonia and looked enough like pint-sized dragons to make Channing wonder if there had even been some contact between the races in the obscure pages of pre-history.
"Sarchix will see you now."