2102 1 The celebratory entree was never in doubt: homegrown lunar beef. The flesh of cattle raised in one-sixth of a gee was oh so tender. The local side dishes were certainly satisfactory, if unexciting. If only some Loonie would figure out how to grow a decent wine grape—the Bordeaux, imported from Earth, was exorbitant. And delicious. And well deserved. Kevin Aldrich slouched in his dining-room chair, pleasantly full. He refilled both his glass and his wife’s. Simone raised her glass in tribute. “To a project well done.” “To exhibitionists,” he sort-of agreed. “And to extraterrestrial voyeurs,” chimed in Jeeves. The comments of the artificially intelligent agent arrived via Kevin’s neural implant, effectively direct to his mind’s ear. Simone hated those interruptions, which made her husband smile or frown or grimace for no apparent reason. “I’m taking the evening off,” Kevin subvocalized. “Sorry.” Jeeves wasn’t, of course, but it had been programmed to observe social conventions.
