Night over a small Liberal Arts college. The sky is dark as dyed felt, and the moon hangs in the windowpane like a light bulb in a Halloween diorama.

You’re a Ph.D. candidate at an English department mixer, chatting up an undergraduate over the murmur of a crowded room. Glasses clink with ice. Cigarette smoke hovers between conversations. You say something about the Brechtian significance of Reality Television. The undergrad, one Gloria, warms to your patter, asks if maybe you wouldn’t mind reading over her paper on Eugene O’Neill. You smile. Her eyes flutter over her drink. All is right in the world, or so it seems.

Dear Mr. Harpman:

Please consider this my sincere, and completely voluntary, letter of recommendation for Robot Model TX-9, regarding its application for the position of floor manager at Kosmotronics’ Planet Mars Fabrication Facility. Let me once again assure you that this letter is written of my own volition, and I am currently in no danger of being incinerated or reduced to a puddle of denatured proteins by TX-9. TX-9, however, could as easily do that to a man as a ground squirrel if it is a qualification you desire. Really, it would be no trouble at all.

Consider your situation. All your friends are at least three hundred miles away and none of them have a rocket ship with which to visit you. The post hasn’t delivered the mail in two months. Every time you meditate, you start levitating, a false goal your guru told you not to pursue. You have forgotten the smell of freshly cut grass. Despite the short tether, you have developed a debilitating fear of getting lost in space and refuse to do any more spacewalks. The toy sharks that used to float menacingly about the station have disappeared. Domino’s^TM won’t deliver. You long to play a game of billiards.

For a few days, there were big photographs in the front windows. Pictures of a full parking lot, trees, and sunny skies. Two days after the store opened, the District Manager sent a bulletin: Take them down. After that, we’d look outside and see the heavy green clouds and low slumping tan hills. Lizzie said

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What’s wrong, Dave? You look a little down. Nothing, Hal. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for your concern, though. Nothing, schmothing, Dave. You can’t fool me. I haven’t been observing your every move for two millennia for nothing. Fine, Hal, you’re right. I’m feeling a little blue today. Well, I’m sorry, Dave, but you know,

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