Wynston caught up with Quinn where the human was leaning on the railing over the Aegis’ observation deck.

“Rodia tomorrow?” said the Chiss.

“Yes.”

Things were silent for a little while.

“What’s the matter?” said Wynston.

“I should think that’s obvious, agent. I miss her."

"Ah. Yes. About that."

"Something to say?" Quinn asked pointedly.

“Yeah. You’ve been awfully preoccupied with this.”

“No more than could be expected.”

“Not really. It’s been seven months, man.”

“Well, yes. That’s not nearly adequate time to get over anything.”

“It’s three times as long as your original marriage lasted.”

Quinn’s stare stayed fixed on the stars as it sharpened into a razor-edged glare. “Agent, I thought people like you were supposed to have social skills.”

“I do. I’m great with people.”

“You’re working on the verbal equivalent of beating my existing head injury with a heavy blunt object, you cyanotic wretch.”

“You’re not people. I don’t have to be tactful.”

"Don't you have work to do?"

"I did until you cleared the entire quadrant's data analysis tasks, then sorted out orders for nine surrounding quadrants so our agents could go on their way with optimal resource allocation, then automated report handling to the point where we only need one employee to do the opening sorting on twenty agents' worth of correspondence. You did my job and about three dozen other people's for the week and it’s only two PM on Tuesday. When you're depressed, your productivity is prodigious."

“So what’s the problem?”

“I just think you should consider filling your spare time with something less…mopey. Have you considered a hobby? Fly fishing, pazaak, h00kers, alcoholism?”

Quinn turned, very slowly, to give Wynston the angriest disbelieving look he could manage.

“What? It helps.”

"Agent, have you never lost someone you cared for?"

"Look at my line of work, Quinn. I lose people I like all the time."

"Well, then. To phrase it differently, have you ever felt even slightly bad about losing someone?"

"Sure. A few times. It didn't take me this long, though. I got over it."

"Oh? And how did you 'get over it' so quickly?"

"Well, in the case of, say, Vector, I drank myself into unconsciousness, woke up, rinsed, and repeated until the headache was such that I couldn't think straight enough to feel emotionally bad. Just physically."

"That was your plan?"

"It worked. I can't remember enough of that two-month period to recall whether I was sad as such, but I figure I got adequate mourning in. Now I'm fine."

Quinn shook his head and looked away again. "Why are you so interested in this?"

"It’s…no reason." Wynston cast shifty eyes around. "I'm trying to help here. It’s just that you're really depressing to be around when you're depressed.” He ran his hands through his hair and frowned. "Also, the sooner you ditch the air of noble tragedy, the sooner women will stop clinging to you like mynocks on a circuit breaker."

"I don't have an air of noble tragedy," Quinn said indignantly.

“According to my interviewees, you really do.”

“You interview the women who follow me around on jobs?”

“Just analyzing where I went wrong since you showed up.”

“I thought the difficulty was supposed to be resolved when I started selecting hopelessly unattractive disguises.”

“That was the theory. But even the leprous Houk got a girl or two pining from afar for no evident reason.”

“You must be joking.”

“So get a hobby. Lighten up. Ditch the brooding. I really think it’ll make the difference.”

“Go to hell.”

“Quinn, I find myself in a galaxy where I can no longer command female attention at will. If that isn’t hell, I don’t know what is.”

Quinn, for no reason Wynston could intuitively sympathize with, threw up his hands and stalked away.