“Fine.”
For some minutes after he left, Deitrich stared at the ceiling, trying to think of nothing, absolutely nothing. He had seen the Tsuroak sort of thing happen before, one way or another. It was the tragic reason for the careful regulation of the big fleets. But sometimes men were bribed. Sometimes they were stupid or just careless.
There is one fixture that time-jumping has installed in every civilized system, and that is the TJ club, or its equivalent. These organizations were the outgrowth of the fractional trickle of population that for one reason or another found itself dislocated not only from its native land, but also from its whole native culture. It was there that the quiet, awed and homesick travelers went out of a hunger for the familiar. And if they did not usually find much of the familiar at a TJ club, at least they had the hope of it.
Deitrich sat in a booth, moodily listening to the music. There was a woman perched on the bar, and in a low, haunting voice she sang strains of age-old melodies. It was soothing, despite the fact that he had never heard them before. But he noticed that many of the patrons that night must have recognized them, because there was a hush the minute she started. A waiter brought him a bottle of good oonalyn wine and two glasses, and Deitrich was content to wait.
She came into the room hesitantly, looking around at the scattering of immigrants, and the few older residents who had not yet given up the tired habit of the place. Deitrich watched her. Finally she saw him, and came on over to the booth.
He got slowly to his feet, smiling. “I was wondering if I had missed you.”
“You weren’t here last night,” she said accusingly.
“At the subcommissioner’s office, you practically said that you wouldn’t see me. Afraid it would upset you, I suppose.”
She nodded and sat down opposite him. “I guess you know what I meant.”
“Sure. You’ve settled down. But you still haven’t quite accepted it.”