It was a six-course meal—not counting the trimmings. Wine carts rolled noiselessly up and down the glass aisles. Spot-lights illuminated the tables from above: lemon-yellow for the turtle soup, bluish-white for the fish dish, the roast chicken entree being bathed in a rosy-pink, tinged with a warm, silky gray. Fortunately, there was no dimming of the lights with the espresso—because Pirx’s mood was somber enough as it was. The dinner had sapped all his energy. He swore that from now on he’d stick to the snack bar on the lower deck. Too swanky in here for his taste, too much time spent worrying about his elbows. And what a fashion show!

A sunken dining room, with the floor half a flight below level and a circular landing: an enormous, creamish-gold plate, arrayed with the world’s most sumptuous appetizers. The rustling of stiff, semitransparent gowns at his back. A gay and festive crowd. Live dance music… and live waiters, each decked out like a philharmonic conductor. “The Transgalactic offers you nonautomated service, cordial and intimate surroundings, genuinely human hospitality, and a completely live crew, each a master of his trade…”

Over coffee and a cigarette, Pirx tried to find a corner, some quiet place of refuge, to rest his eyes. A woman seated at a nearby table caught his fancy. Her neckline was shaded by a flat but rough stone. Not chrysoprase or chalcedony—most likely a souvenir from Mars. Must have cost a fortune, he thought, even though it looked like little more than a chunk of asphalt. Women shouldn’t have so much money.

He wasn’t overwhelmed. And he wasn’t appalled—just observant. Gradually he felt an urge to stretch his limbs. A stroll on the promenade deck, maybe?

He got up from the table, made a slight bow, and left the dining room. As he passed between some reflecting polygonal columns, he caught a glimpse of himself: a button was showing beneath the knot in his tie.