I went at the regular time to the karaoke bar to meet Muriel and Gus. The bar, which had several names but usually went by “Alibi,” took up the entire ninth floor of a hastily built structure amidst the dirty neon of one of Diaspora City’s seedier districts. A heavy-pile, dark red carpet covered the floor of a stage, which was illuminated with several bare low-watt bulbs. As usual, that night it was crowded and filled with clinks and respectful low murmurs. I found Gus at a table near the back nursing a tequila.