My throat clenches and tears burn beneath my eyelids. The entrance to the lobby is wide open, pouring warm, clean air out into the night. Beneath the chandelier, in the middle of the room, is Mr. Julius R. Burberry, American Earthman, former CEO of a revolutionary solar mining company and current inter-planetary flaneur. He’s standing there in pleated pinstripe pants and gleaming black leather shoes. He wears a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms, fabric stretched by his broad shoulders. A thin, red silk tie is loose around his unbuttoned collar and dives down beneath the buttons of a dark pinstripe vest cinched fittingly around his waist. He was my best customer. The best customer, in fact, of any girl on Io. He came on business frequently, checking up on the refining and packaging stations, and every time he’d call for me. He would visit Io more than any other businessman I’d heard of, and I came to suspect that he often came for other reasons.
