The waiting room had the kind of decor one would expect of the greenroom of a down-at-the-heels acting troupe. Two ancient sofas of indeterminate color were sagging against opposite walls, surrounded by an assortment of folding and wooden chairs that would have been cheap if new, and the magazines strewn on the only table would have made an archaeologist sit up and take notice.
Two men shared the space, more at home with each other than with their surroundings. One was a chunky individual of medium height, decked out in impeccable but conservative civilian clothes, or civvies, as they were known in these quarters. His ruddy face had the bland expression of one used to waiting as he dominated one sofa, idly staring at the pocket microcomputer in his lap and steadfastly ignoring his companion.
The other occupant was anything but calm in appearance or manner. Whiplash lean, he seemed to radiate barely suppressed energy as he paced the room’s confines. If tigers stood vigil in maternity waiting rooms while awaiting delivery of their young, there would be little difference between their display of anxiety and that shown by the young man’s nervous prowling. Perhaps panthers would be a better comparison, as his uniform was the midnight black of the Space Legion-a color chosen not for its aesthetic or camouflage value as much as the fact the dye could hide the origins of any military surplus uniform bought in lots by the budget-strapped Legion. Not that he was wearing a standard-issue uniform, mind you. His collar pips marked him as a lieutenant, and like most officers he had his uniforms tailor-made, taking full advantage of the Legion’s lack of uniformity among their uniforms. The quality of the fabric and workmanship in his garment was several notches above normal, though he had deliberately chosen one of a more somber cut for this occasion.