"Prrrt-prt!"
Phil took mental inventory of his snack box and found himself thinking of the cranberry concentrate. Wildly inappropriate—and yet something assured him that it would be just right for Lucky.
It was done quickly: a dark-red marble that swelled to a glistening ruby golf ball at the touch of water, and then, at another sudden inward prompting, the syrupy contents of a vitamino capsule poured over it.
The last ingredient smelled rather rank and by the time he set the odd sundae on the floor, Phil was feeling quite doubtful. However, Lucky examined it with all signs of approval, mewing in eagerness. But then instead of beginning to eat, he looked up at Phil. Phil thought he understood: cats have their special proprieties and delicacies. The little chap wanted to eat in private.
"Okay, fellow, I'll go shower. And I won't peek."
Stepping inside the bathroom, he set the shower control to alternate tepid and very warm. Instead it chose irresponsibly to alternate icy and steaming, so that he leaped out with a yell. But the incident didn't even scratch his mood. As he toweled himself (he didn't like the air drier and toweling robots made him uneasy) he sang:
We're out in space, they've cut the jet,
There isn't any ceiling, floor, or wall.
Let's dance on air, or better yet—
Hug me, love me, darling, in free-fall!