Rain poured down upon the dark, paved streets - barely lit by streetlamps that flickered and hummed with the thrumming noise of electricity. Something so new, such a breakthrough, it almost seemed scary.

His hand pushed against the door, Easterman walked into a small diner. Hardly a diner, more like a bar: the on-going Cold War made it almost desolate...

{{user}} sat behind the bar, humming to the crackling radio that played "Put on your Sunday clothes" by Barbra Streisand and Michael Crawford.