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I
left
Kolding
before
my
mood
worsened
too
much
,
making
my
way
to
a
different
part
of
the
station
.
Greta
had
suggested
we
meet
for
breakfast
and
catch
up
on
old
times
.
She
was
there
when
I
arrived
,
sitting
at
a
table
in
an
"
outdoor
"
terrace
,
under
a
red
-
and
-
white
-
striped
canopy
,
sipping
orange
juice
.
Above
us
was
a
dome
several
hundred
metres
wide
,
projecting
a
cloudless
holographic
sky
.
It
had
the
hard
,
enamelled
blue
of
midsummer
.
"
How
’
s
the
hotel
?
"
she
asked
after
I
’
d
ordered
a
coffee
from
the
waiter
.
"
Not
bad
.
No
one
seems
very
keen
on
conversation
,
though
.
Is
it
me
or
does
that
place
have
all
the
cheery
ambience
of
a
sinking
ocean
liner
?
"
"
It
’
s
just
this
place
,
"
Greta
said
.
"
Everyone
who
comes
here
is
pissed
off
about
it
.
Either
they
got
transferred
here
and
they
’
re
pissed
off
about
that
,
or
they
ended
up
here
by
a
routing
error
and
they
’
re
pissed
off
about
that
instead
.
Take
your
pick
.
"
"
No
one
’
s
happy
?
"
"
Only
the
ones
who
know
they
’
re
getting
out
of
here
soon
.
"
"
Would
that
include
you
?
"
"
No
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
’
m
more
or
less
stuck
here
.
But
I
’
m
OK
about
it
.
I
guess
I
’
m
the
exception
that
proves
the
rule
.
"
The
waiters
were
glass
mannequins
,
the
kind
that
had
been
fashionable
in
the
core
worlds
about
twenty
years
ago
.
One
of
them
placed
a
croissant
in
front
of
me
,
then
poured
scalding
black
coffee
into
my
cup
.
