"What are all these people doing here?" Mrs. Hendriks asked.
Her husband shrugged. "Maybe they plan on crashing the gate—or possibly they think there may be some tickets left. I tell you, we're awfully lucky to be where we are right now."
He extended the invitations to a tall, haughty-looking doorman in a resplendent uniform. The doorman merely nodded and gestured them inside.
"Don't they tear up the tickets?"
"Not on opening night," Hendriks said. "They're letting us keep them as souvenirs."
They stepped inside and found themselves in a vast, almost boundless vestibule carpeted with deep pile synthofoam of a lush purple color. Vaulting arches of gleaming metal swept upward to the barely visible ceiling.
"If this is just the foyer," Paul Hendriks said, "imagine what it must be inside!"
His wife nudged him. "Look—isn't that shocking!"
A girl of about seventeen was coming toward them, smiling cheerfully. Hendriks blinked. She wore only two nearly-transparent strips of shimmering cloth, one over her breasts and the other wrapped round her hips.
"Good evening," she said. "I'm your usher. May I show you to your seats?"