As a miniature Pluto swung on its slow arc, an image of it was projected on the girl's dusky face. She seemed to be staring at nothing.
"Why d'you call me over here? You a purist, or don't you like the brand of sensatia-tapes they're peddlin' these days?"
"I don't understand," Craig said.
She smiled crookedly at him. Not a bad face, Craig decided, but hard, hard as the ceramiplate of a ship. She could not be very old. It was the kind of wild look in her eyes that gave her a false appearance of age.
"Maybe you're writing a book—you got me over here for something."
"I just got in," Craig answered.
"What am I supposed to do for this drink?"