Yery Golightly stood up and nodded. Most people were scoffers when it came to her subtle "hunches" and "premonitions", but those who knew her and trusted Chancists would bet their very lives upon these warnings. She turned to James, her glass empty.
"Yes, let's. I should say that things are getting a little too stuffy in here, and a lot too complicated. Shall we?" James Dalton hooked his arm through hers, and she rearranged the long skirt of her platinum column dress. She was, oddly, sweating.
Once she and the gambler were both outside, basking in the balmy late-night air of New Chicago, they strolled to his "car", which was electric, of course, and powered alternately by hydrogen fuel cells. Gasoline had long become a relic of the ancients.
"So," said Yery, smelling a slight deodorant failure under her arms, "who was that old lady who came to get you? Some friend of yours, or your mother?" She guessed not.