Fabian Perez The Bar tender painting

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Fortunately the manager was only too eager to be rid of me. The waiting room is this way," the manager said, and escorted me back across the lobby, her bare haunches moving with a heavy, malevolent waggle.
Of course all Interplanary inns and hotels have a waiting room exactly like an airport, with rows of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, and a horrible diner with no seats which is closed but reeks of stale beef fat, and a flabby man with a nose cold overflowing from the chair next to you, and a display of expected flight arrivals and departures which flickers by so fast you never can be quite sure you've What the translatomat had translated as "How?" had been a conventional phrase on the order of "How regrettable," which the manager's fleshy but tight lips had truncated. My cowardice, leaping at the false signal, had stopped my brain, chopped off my memory, just as the mere fear of forgetting the name ensures that I will forget the name of anyone I have to introduce to anyone else.