"Oh." The man set the drink in front of Doak.
"Trying to talk him into leaving some money to the University," Doak added. "Guess he's a pretty hard man to get money from."
"I hear he is. I wouldn't know about it. He—doesn't shop in town."
The drink was freshly flavorful, cool as springwater. Doak rubbed the beaded moisture with a thumb. "Pretty town," he said. "Pretty country around here."
"Peaceful," the man agreed. "I've never been anywhere else, so I couldn't judge it right, I guess—but then I've never had the urge to go anywhere else, so it must be all right."
"These days," Doak said, "a man doesn't need to go anywhere else. They bring the world right to you."
"I guess. Hear they're having a hard time getting Venus populated. I guess people aren't as rootless as the planners figured."
By "the planners" the man undoubtedly meant THAT WASHINGTON CROWD. Doak finished his drink and went up the street to the grey house with the blue shutters on the curve.
There was a woman sitting on the front porch, a short and heavy woman with dark hair and brown eyes. She smiled at him and said, "Good evening," without rising.
"Mrs. Klein?" Doak asked and she nodded. He said, "The station agent told me you rented rooms and served meals. My name is Doak Parker."