Did they have droids? she wondered, and decided she’d been smart to take her weapon with her. If they had droids, why not an AutoChef in the bedroom—one with coffee on the menu? Or a screen so she could scan the international crime news to see what was happening at home. Adapt, she ordered herself as she dressed while some species of bird went cuckoo—literally—over and over again outside the window. This wasn’t New York, or even a close facsimile. And surely she was racking up good wife points every minute. She raked her fingers through her damp hair—no drying tube in the facilities—and considered herself as ready for the day as she was going to get. Halfway down the steps she heard more singing, a pretty and bright human voice lilting away about love. And on the turn for the kitchen, she swore she caught the siren’s scent of coffee. Hope shimmered even as she told herself it was likely just sense memory.
