Mary-Ellen was almost as tall as Kinsman. She had the strong, honest face of a woman who can stand beside her husband in the face of anything from Washington cocktail parties to the tight infighting of rural Maine politics.

The bar dispenser hummed absent-mindedly to itself as it produced a heavy scotch and water. Kinsman took a stinging sip of it.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” Mary-Ellen said over the noise of the crowd. “You’ve been something of a hermit lately.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I never expected you to show up by yourself. Chet Kinsman without a girl on his arm is . . . well, something new.”

“I’m preparing for the priesthood.”

“I’d almost believe it.” she said, straight-faced. “There’s something different about you since you’ve been on the Moon. You’re quieter.”

I’ve been grounded. Aloud, he said, “Creeping maturity. I’m a late achiever.”

But she was serious, and as stubborn as her husband. “Don’t try to kid around it. You’ve changed. You’re not playing the dashing young astronaut any more.”

“Who the hell is?”

A burly, balding man jarred into Kinsman from behind, sloshing half his drink out of its glass.

“Whoops, didn’t get it on ya, did, oh, hell, Mrs. McGrath. Looks like I’m waterin’ your rug.”

“It’s disposable,” Mary-Ellen said. “Do you two know each other? Tug Wynne, this is—”

“I’ve seen Major Kinsman on the Hill.”

Chet said, “You’re with the Allnews Syndicate, aren’t you?” Nodding, Wynne replied, “Surprised to see you here, Major, after this morning’s committee session.”

Kinsman forced a grin. “I’m an old family friend. Mrs. McGrath and I went to college together.”

“You think the congressman’s gonna vote against the Moonbase appropriation?”

“Looks that way,” Kinsman said.

Mary-Ellen kept silent.

“He sure gave your Colonel Murdock a hard time this morning. Mrs. McGrath, you shoulda seen your husband in action.” Wynne chuckled wheezily.

Kinsman changed the subject. “Say, do you know Cy Calder. . . old guy, works for Allied News in California?”

“Only by legend,” Wynne answered. “He died a couple months ago, y’know.”

“No . . . I didn’t know.” Kinsman felt a brief pang deep inside the part of him that he kept frozen. He made himself ignore it.

“Yep. He musta been past eighty. Friend of yours?”

“Sort of. I knew him . . . well, a few years back.”

Mary-Ellen said, “I’d better get to some of the other guests. There are several old friends of yours here tonight, Chet. Mix around, you’ll find them.”

With another rasping cackle, Wynne said, “Guess we could let somebody else get next to the bar.”

Kinsman started to drift away, but Wynne followed beside him.

“Murdock send you over here to try to soften up McGrath?”

Pushing past a pair of arguing cigar smokers, Kinsman frowned. “I was invited to this party weeks ago. I told you, Mrs. McGrath and I are old friends,”

“How do you get along with the congressman?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wynne let his teeth show. “Well, from what I hear, you were quite a hellraiser a few years back. How’d you and Mrs. McGrath get along in college together?”

You cruddy old bastard. “If you’re so interested in Mrs. McGrath’s college days, why don’t you ask her? Or her husband? Get off my back.”

Wynne shrugged and raised his glass in mock salute. “Yes sir, Major, sir.”

Kinsman turned and started working his way toward the other end of the room. A grandfather clock chimed off in a corner, barely audible over the human noises and clacking of ice in glassware. Eighteen hundred. Gold and Smitty ought to be halfway to Copernicus by now.

And then he heard her. He didn’t have to see her; he knew it was Diane. The same pure, haunting soprano; a voice straight out of a legend.

“Once I had a sweetheart, and now I have none.

Once I had a sweetheart, and now I have none.

He’s gone and leave me, he’s gone and leave me.

He’s gone and leave me to sorrow and mourn.”

Her voice stroked his memory and he felt all the old joys, all the old pain, as he pushed his way through the crowd.

Finally he saw her, sitting cross-legged on a sofa, guitar hiding her slim figure. The same ancient guitar: no amplifiers, no boosters. Her hair was still long and straight and black as space; her eyes even darker and deeper. The people were ringed around her, standing, sitting on the floor. They gave her the entire sofa to herself, like an altar that only the anointed could use. They watched her and listened, entranced by her voice. But she was somewhere else, living the song, seeing what it told of, until she strummed the final chord.

Then she looked straight at Kinsman. Not surprised, not even smiling, just a look that linked them as if the past five years had never been. Before either of them could say or do anything, the others broke into applause. Diane smiled and mouthed, “Thank you.”

“More, more!”

“Come on, another one”

“‘Greensleeves.’”

Diane put the guitar down carefully beside her, uncoiled her long legs, and stood up. “Would later be okay?”