debating whether the term was meaningful, since according to some, “anthropo-” meant strictly Terran-human) in response to the ads they had been running for scientific professionals to staff their stellar exploration missions. Maybe hearing a lot about the consortium from Ivor had had something to do with it. For a long time little had happened other than her receiving a routine acknowledgment. Then, suddenly, she was notified that an expedition was being organized at short notice to a planet called Cyrene, and if she could wrap up her Earthly affairs in time, or at least put them on hold, there was a slot for her if she wanted it, and a place reserved on a familiarization course to be conducted in San Francisco.
Jerri had noticed that elderly people seldom argued. If others disagreed with their views, or were too rushed and hurried to listen to them in the first place, they tended to let things be. But when someone did take the trouble to listen, they could learn much that was of value. And one thing that she had noticed over and over again was that older people never regretted anything they had done. Even the marriage that hadn’t worked, the gold mine that ran dry, the business that went belly-up — all seemed to evoke the reaction “Well, I gave it a try.” What they regretted were the things they hadn’t done when the chance was there: the year or two to see the world that they had put off and put off because there was always something more urgent, and one day it was too late; the buy-in option that they turned down. Even the recollection of a come-on eye and a provocatively revealed leg from fifty years ago could produce a wistful “It was right there in front of me, but I was too green to see it.” Thus forewarned, Jerri had consigned herself to whatever fate might have in store, accepted the offer, and joined the class a week previously. However, she was playing hookey today after Ivor made good on his promise to get her an invitation to the Metterlin Aviation School opening day, which gave her a chance to see close-up something of the people behind the business that she would be working for. Also, it would enable her to break the news to Ivor personally of her imminent departure. Things had moved so quickly that she hadn’t found an opportune moment to mention it.
A rising fanfare from the band made her turn her head from studying the curving geometric surfaces of metal and glass that formed the roof and upper parts of the building. Two stewards wearing the maroon jackets and tan pants of Metterlin’s personal staff were tactfully but efficiently moving the dancers away from the center of the wooden floor and clearing an avenue to the side, where a paved path led from the entrance forecourt. Approaching along it, surrounded by an entourage of officials from the college, local political figures, more maroon jackets, and a half-dozen two-fifty-pounders in tuxedos bulging at the chest and the shoulders, was Conrad Metterlin himself, with his wife, Vera, on his arm.
He was clearly relishing every moment. As the people on the dance floor fell back into an admiring circle and others converged or fluttered mothlike from around the lawn and the marquee, he strode grandly in a sky-blue suit that shone with a silky luster, trimmed at the lapels and pockets with what looked like sheared mink, beaming and acknowledging favorites with waves from side to side. Vera maintained a regal poise, moving proudly in an iridescent gown that reflected in gold and green, and seemed more drapery than dress, the effect enhanced by jewelry flashing in the sunlight from her fingers, arms, neck, and hair. Without missing a step, the couple swept to the center of the floor as the band changed tune, where they proceeded to move smoothly into a stylish routine that brought approving murmurs and applause. The steps and twirls looked very technical and precise, but Jerri didn’t know enough about that kind of thing to be able to fully
Jerri had noticed that elderly people seldom argued. If others disagreed with their views, or were too rushed and hurried to listen to them in the first place, they tended to let things be. But when someone did take the trouble to listen, they could learn much that was of value. And one thing that she had noticed over and over again was that older people never regretted anything they had done. Even the marriage that hadn’t worked, the gold mine that ran dry, the business that went belly-up — all seemed to evoke the reaction “Well, I gave it a try.” What they regretted were the things they hadn’t done when the chance was there: the year or two to see the world that they had put off and put off because there was always something more urgent, and one day it was too late; the buy-in option that they turned down. Even the recollection of a come-on eye and a provocatively revealed leg from fifty years ago could produce a wistful “It was right there in front of me, but I was too green to see it.” Thus forewarned, Jerri had consigned herself to whatever fate might have in store, accepted the offer, and joined the class a week previously. However, she was playing hookey today after Ivor made good on his promise to get her an invitation to the Metterlin Aviation School opening day, which gave her a chance to see close-up something of the people behind the business that she would be working for. Also, it would enable her to break the news to Ivor personally of her imminent departure. Things had moved so quickly that she hadn’t found an opportune moment to mention it.
A rising fanfare from the band made her turn her head from studying the curving geometric surfaces of metal and glass that formed the roof and upper parts of the building. Two stewards wearing the maroon jackets and tan pants of Metterlin’s personal staff were tactfully but efficiently moving the dancers away from the center of the wooden floor and clearing an avenue to the side, where a paved path led from the entrance forecourt. Approaching along it, surrounded by an entourage of officials from the college, local political figures, more maroon jackets, and a half-dozen two-fifty-pounders in tuxedos bulging at the chest and the shoulders, was Conrad Metterlin himself, with his wife, Vera, on his arm.
He was clearly relishing every moment. As the people on the dance floor fell back into an admiring circle and others converged or fluttered mothlike from around the lawn and the marquee, he strode grandly in a sky-blue suit that shone with a silky luster, trimmed at the lapels and pockets with what looked like sheared mink, beaming and acknowledging favorites with waves from side to side. Vera maintained a regal poise, moving proudly in an iridescent gown that reflected in gold and green, and seemed more drapery than dress, the effect enhanced by jewelry flashing in the sunlight from her fingers, arms, neck, and hair. Without missing a step, the couple swept to the center of the floor as the band changed tune, where they proceeded to move smoothly into a stylish routine that brought approving murmurs and applause. The steps and twirls looked very technical and precise, but Jerri didn’t know enough about that kind of thing to be able to fully
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