“I don’t just imagine it.” He paused and sipped his wine. “You know what?” he said and she looked at him attentively. “I don’t even know your name.”
She burst out laughing. “Sara McGee,” she told him.
He repealed it slowly, tasting the familiar sound of the words. “That’s a very nice name, Sara.”
“Most people can’t understand it any more. I’ve been thinking of changing it.”
“Don’t,” he begged. “It’s too nice.” She laughed again, but it faded as her gaze darted out across the room. “I used to come here all the time,” she murmured. “Until it got sort of depressing.” The singer at the bar held a long sad note. “They’re all so… so lonesome,” she breathed.
He slowly drank his wine and made an approving face. Then he said gently, “Certainly they’re all lonesome, Sara. Or homesick would be the word if they have some of their family or friends with them. But as you say, it’s lonesome if they came by themselves.”
“Don’t you get lonesome?” she asked.
“Yes. But you can get used to being lonesome, too. Your attitude changes to accommodate the situation if the situation becomes chronic.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you made the shorter runs they have back in the Home? Between local systems, I mean?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. When I first started this business though, the ships went a lot slower than they go now. The average short-run was anywhere from thirty to forty years. Other runs were as much as sixty or seventy between the local systems.