Galactic Dreams

If it did, it did not reveal them to her. Instead it carried her swiftly and surely to a marble balcony high on the glossy flank of Lowell-Stein House: that remarkable structure, office building and home, that was the seat of power of the Lowell-Stein World Industries. Its master handed her down himself.

“You are lovely, charming, welcome to my home,” he said, tanned, handsome, and respectable, the perfect host. Beatrice decided on the bold course, hoping to gain the emotional upper hand.

“This is a very nice copter,” she said, as coldly as she could. “Particularly since it doesn’t turn into a flying bagnio at the touch of a button.”

“But it does, though that is not for you. For you, dinner and the theater first.”

“How dare you!”

“I dare nothing. You dare by coming here; you told me that. Now step inside” — the glass wall rose as they approached then sank behind them — “and have a cocktail. I am old-fashioned so we shall have a traditional drink. A Martini. Vodka or gin, which do you prefer?”

Ron pointed to Goya’s Maja Desnuda, the original, of course, which whisked from sight disclosing a window behind which moved, in an apparently endless stream, bottle after bottle of every brand of vodka and gin ever manufactured since the world was young. Beatrice concealed her ignorance, quite well she thought, not only of the preferred brand but of the very nature of the Martini itself, by waving gently and saying, “You’re the host, why don’t you choose for both of us?”

“Capital. We shall have Bombay gin and essence of Noilly Prat, at a ratio of a thousand to one — the way it should be served.”

The automated bar heard him and the bottles whizzed by the window and stopped and Queen Victoria frowned down upon them. The glass fell away and a chrome arm plucked out the bottle, opened it, tilted it, poured its contents into the air.

“Oh,” Beatrice gasped as the liquid fell toward the rug in a transparent stream.

“A bit showy,” he said, “but I like things that are done with style,” as, at the last instant, a goblet popped out from a hidden niche and caught the drink, every drop.

It was charming to watch, a functional mobile that entertained with its sprightly motions, concluded by producing the desired drink. The silver band on the goblet was caught by a magnetic field and lifted to eye level, floating freely in the air before them. A chime sounded and an atomizer of vermouth essence sprang out on the end of a cunningly jointed arm and poised itself above the container. Ron reached out a casual finger and touched the bulb, which sent a delicate spray across the surface of the gin.

“I like the personal touch,” he said. “I feel that it makes the drink.”

Then — one, two, three — a cryogenic tube of liquid helium dipped and spun and lifted away, chilling the drink exactly to within a thousandth of the required degree, and a tray, with two glasses cooled to the same temperature as the liquid, appeared on the end of a telescoping gilded arm to the accompaniment of another chime and Ron asked, “Onion or lemon peel?”

“Whichever you suggest,” she laughed, enchanted by the device.

“Both,” he smiled. “Let us be sybarites tonight.”

A tube delivered the onions, forked fingers the slices of lemon, and he handed her her glass.

“A toast,” he said, “to our love.”

“Don’t be rude,” she told him, sipping. “I think this is quite good.”

“To know it is to love it. I was not rude. I was just reminding you that before the night is gone you will have enjoyed ecstasy.”

“Nothing of the sort.” She put the drink down, and her foot as well. “I am hungry and I wish to go out and eat.”

“Forgive me for not telling you, but we are dining at home. I know you will enjoy the meal, it’s ristaffel, your favorite, since I know how wild you are about Indonesian food.”

As he spoke he touched her elbow and led her toward the dining room. “We shall begin with loempia, then on to nasi-goreng sambal olek, and for the wine — the wine! — I have discovered the perfect wine to accompany this exotic meal.”

Music swelled as the gamelan orchestra began to play and the temple dancers glided forth. The table was already set and the first course served and steaming, the tiers of cups of spices and sauces rotating slowly. Beatrice knew that the rice would be perfect and fluffy. She did love this food, but he took too much for granted. She would be firm, even embarrass him.

“I used to like this,” she said, trying to look bored-while saliva rose unbidden, brought forth by the delightful odors, “but no more. What I prefer is …”

What? She tried to think of something exotic. “I really prefer … Danish food, those delightful open sandwiches.”

“To think of the terrible mistake I almost made,” Ron said. “Remove this meal.”