“Hi, David,” she said as he slid in beside her. “I was hoping you’d come. I thought you would. Isn’t the band great? They’re so loud!” She almost had to yell to be heard, but he could see she liked that, too. And after her initial glance at him, she went back to looking at the dancers.

“They’re good, all right,” he said. They were, too. He could feel himself responding in spite of his anxiety, which had returned. Now that he’d actually found her, he was worried all over again about missing that damned pick-up train. “The lead singer sounds like Buck Owens.”

“Does he?” She looked at him, smiling. “Who’s Buck Owens?”

“It doesn’t matter. We ought to go back to the station. Unless you want to be stranded here another day, that is.”

“That might not be so bad. I kind of like this pla-whoa, look out!”

A glass arched across the dance floor, sparkling briefly green and gold in the stage gels, and shattered somewhere out of sight. There were cheers and some applause-Willa was also applauding-but David saw a couple of beefcakes with the words SECURITY and SERENITY printed on their T-shirts moving in on the approximate site of the missile launch.

“This is the kind of place where you can count on four fistfights in the parking lot before eleven,” David said, “and often one free-for-all inside just before last call.”

She laughed, pointed her forefingers at him like guns. “Good! I want to see!”

“And I want us to go back,” he said. “If you want to go honky-tonking in San Francisco, I’ll take you. It’s a promise.”

She stuck out her lower lip and shook back her sandy-blond hair. “It wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t, and you know it. In San Francisco they probably drink…I don’t know…macrobiotic beer.”