"Wait until you're properly served, Mister."
She spread out the pale yellow cloth on the floor and arranged the food in orderly fashion. It was moulded into various patterns and colors, and was firm enough to eat with their fingers, which was fortunate as there were no eating utensils. They both ate hungrily and were nearly finished when soft music came into the air from some invisible source. It was hauntingly mingled in composition, but all vaguely familiar, drifting from the limited scale of the Orient to waltzes and furious Russian symphonies. The hill billy band that finally played seemed oddly out of harmony and yet aroused a nostalgia for home in their hearts.
"I feel like a nap—" said Hilda, yawning.
"So do I—wonder if there was a drug—in—that—milk."
It seemed only a moment to John that he had been sleeping, but his muscles were rested, his weariness was gone, and he felt invigorated. He looked for his watch, but it was not there. In fact there were no pockets. Then he remembered!
Hilda was splashing around in the bath cubicle, and singing.
"Hello, Sleepy!" she said, emerging and adjusting a strap in the strange silvery clothing.
"So—it wasn't a dream—"
"No, and hurry up with your bath. Your head is tousled. Maybe they'll feed us again. I don't want to eat opposite that mop."
"Yes, dear—" he said, attempting scorn, but only achieving a new tenderness.