Jelani sniffed disapprovingly. He looked up at the Terran who had brought him here, then at the Caspian sitting across the table. Pe Khoja studied the Delphian through half-closed lids. Pinched, aristocratic face with a beak of a nose. A voice that grated. Not so young anymore; Pe Khoja judged him to be third, maybe even fourth quarter. Skin of the left forefinger worn-looking as if from the chafe of a heavy ring worn for years. Maybe the sort of ring worn by Shantirs. He slumped deep into his seat and drew a knee up against the edge of the table. His eyes searched through the noisy, surging crowd around them, seeing no one loiter, no one watching. If there were any Union agents here, they were well concealed. The nervous Delphian before him sat erect in a crowd of slouchers, eyeing a brawlsome group of travelers at a nearby table as if he expected an imminent assault. He looked out of place here in Feron’s only public airport and interstellar launch. It took hard-earned experience to distinguish ticket-holding commuters from the riffraff of thieves, panhandlers and whores.
