wasKurt Fawzi and his wife, and Lynne. And there was Senta herself, fat anddumpy, in one of her preposterous red-and-purple dresses, bustlingabout, bubbling happily one moment and screaming invective at somelaggard waiter the next.
The dinner, Conn knew, would be the best he had eaten in five years, andafterward they would sit in the dim glow of Beta Gartner, sipping coffeeand liqueurs, smoking and talking and visiting back and forth from onetable to another, as they always did in the evenings at Senta's. Anotherbit from Eirrarsson's poem came back to him:
_We sit in the twilight, the shadows among, And we talk of the happy days when we were brave and young._
That was for the old ones, for Colonel Zareff and Judge Ledue and DolfKellton, maybe even for Tom Brangwyn and Franz Veltrin and for hisfather. But his brother Charley and the boys of his generation wouldhave a future to talk about. And so would he, and Lynne Fawzi.
--H. BEAM PIPER
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