waiter at once moved to guide them to the reserved table.
But Talley had stopped. Damon looked back, found him staring about at the
screens with a heart-open look on his face. “Josh,” Damon said, and when he did
not react, gently took his arm. “This way.” Balance deserted some newcomers to
the concourse, difficulty with the slow spin of the images which dwarfed the
tables. He kept the grip all the way to the table, a prime one on the margin,
with unimpeded view of the screens.
Elene rose at their arrival. “Josh Talley,” Damon said. “Elene Quen, my wife.”
Elene blinked. Most reacted to Talley. Slowly she extended her hand, which he
took. “Josh, is it? Elene.” She settled back to her chair and they took theirs.
The waiter stood expectantly. “Another,” she said.
“Special,” Damon said, looked at Talley. “Any preference? Or trust me.”
Talley shrugged, looking uncomfortable.
“Two,” Damon said, and the waiter vanished. He looked at Elene. “Crowded, this
evening.”
“Not many residents go to the dockside lately,” Elene said. That was so; the
beached merchanters had staked out a couple of the bars exclusively, a running
problem with security.
“They serve dinner here,” Damon said, looking at Talley. “Sandwiches, at least.”
“I’ve eaten,” he said in a remote tone, fit to stop any conversation.
“Have you,” Elene asked, “spent much time on stations?”
Damon reached for her hand under the table, but Talley shook his head quite
undisturbed.
“Only Russell’s.”
“Pell is the best of them.” She slid past that pit without looking at it. One
shot declined, Damon thought, wondering if Elene meant what she did. “Nothing
like this at the others.”
“Quen… is a merchanter name.”
“Was. They were destroyed at Mariner.”
Damon clenched his hand on hers in her lap. Talley stared at her stricken. “I’m
sorry.”
Elene shook her head. “Not your fault, I’m sure. Merchanters get it from both
sides. Bad luck, that’s all.”
“He can’t remember,” Damon said.
“Can you?” Elene asked.
Talley shook his head slightly.
“So,” Elene said, “It’s neither here nor there. I’m glad you could come. The
Deep spat you out; only a stationer’d dice with you?”
Damon remained perplexed, but Talley smiled wanly, some remote joke he seemed to
comprehend.
“I suppose so.”
“Luck and luck,” Elene said, glanced aside at him and tightened her hand. “You
can dice and win on dockside, but old Deep loads his. Carry a man like that for
luck. Touch him for it. Here’s to survivors, Josh Talley.”
Bitter irony? Or an effort at welcome? It was merchanters’ humor, impenetrable
as another language. Talley seemed relaxed by it. Damon drew back his hand, and
settled back. “Did they discuss the matter of a job, Josh?”
“No.”
“You are discharged. If you can’t work, station will carry you for a while. But
I did arrange something tentatively, that you can go to of mornings, work as
long as you feel able, go back home by noon, maindays. Would that appeal to
you?”
Talley said nothing, but the look on his face, half-lit in the image of the sun…
it was nearest now, in the slow rotation… wanted it, hung on it. Damon leaned
his arms on the table, embarrassed now to give the little that he had arranged.
“A disappointment, perhaps. You have higher qualifications. Small machine
salvage, a job, at least… on your way to something else. And I’ve found a room
for you, in the old merchanter’s central hospice, bath but no kitchen… things
are incredibly tight. Your job credit is guaranteed by station law to cover
basic food and lodging. Since you don’t have a kitchen, your card’s good in any
restaurant up to a certain limit There are things you have to pay for above
that… but there’s always a schedule in comp to list volunteer service jobs, that
you can apply for to get extras. Eventually station will demand a full day’s
work for board and room, but not till you’re certified able. Is that all right
with you?”
“I’m free?”
“For all reasonable purposes, yes.” The drinks arrived. Damon picked up his
frothy concoction of summer fruit and alcohol, watched with interest as Talley