"It's too bad your cousin won't join us," said the captain, seating them courteously. "I hope those cartons of hers have something tasty inside them."
"They contain Dr. Stringfellow's Vegetable Remedy and Tonic for Gentlewomen," replied Betty primly. "It is said to be very nourishing."
Their host shuddered. Recovering, he clapped his hands sharply. "Oh, steward!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" said the robot, appearing with a big silver tureen and setting it down on the table.
The Buttons drew back.
"I can see you don't trust me," laughed the captain. "So we'll serve everything out in plain sight. You can shuffle the plates if you want to." He proceeded to ladle out a clear, fragrant soup. "There. Take whichever you want."
The Buttons selected their plates. They picked up their spoons, dipped them nervously, made rowing motions.
The captain ate heartily, talking away between spoonfuls. He told them that Sugar Plum was surrounded by an ionized layer impervious to DoItAll waves. He said he had no use for such gadgets, or for the Age which produced them.
"And why," he demanded, "did we become fake Victorians? Why are we worse than the real ones? I'll tell you. Because space was too big. It made people feel puny. They wanted a hole to crawl into—something small, safe and stuffy."
As course followed course, he told them how he had retired from piracy after homesteading Sugar Plum. Alone with his robots, he had dismantled his vessel, using its engines for heating and lighting. He had done a good deal of exploring.