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What right had he to sit in the sunshine, to occupy corner seats in third-class carriages, to be alive? None, none, none. Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three, and oh! so agonizingly conscious of the fact. The train came bumpingly to a halt. Here was Camlet at last.
The season was, in local parlance, "on," the elements were assembled; the big windy hotel, the draughty social hall, swarmed with "types," in Charlotte's constant phrase, and resounded with a din in which the wild music of gilded and befrogged bands, Croatian, Dalmatian, Carpathian, violently exotic and nostalgic, was distinguished as struggling against the perpetual popping of corks.
There was nothing in his practical working structure that had any need of women. Still, the attraction was there in the memory patterns that had been transferred. There were other attractions just as puzzling to him. He had vague memories of people with whom he felt no affinity except as vaguely nostalgic memories Sam Baker's mother, his father, the blurred faces of friends he had known.
Tarlac took nostalgic pleasure in what he knew would be his last ship-descent. This view had always been a favorite of his: the clear, windless sight of the sun reflecting off Antarctic snowfields. A dark speck appeared at the foot of the Sentinel Mountains, the modified defense screen that protected the Imperial Palace and a circle fifty kilometers around it from the harsh environment.
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