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hrill major-chord fanfare of synthesizer horns and strings backed by a
slippery fretless bass glide. I rolled off the inflatible into the warm
water of the Silvermoon's tank and with a couple of strokes I reached
the edge and climbed out. A nasal voice began to sing a lyric over the
relentless urgency of the music; as ever, I hadn't a clue what the
words were, my half-sleep state making my incomprehension that much more
acute. Picking up a white bathrobe that lay at the poolside I put it
on, savouring it's seductive touch on my wet skin as I tied the cord
around my waist.
"Turn it down for God's sake, I moaned. The volume diminished a
trifle. "How can I concentrate to kick the software into action with
that unholy row."
"This is your culture Greenacre!" the voice of the captain came from
above and beyond the pool wall, probably from the engineer's console;
"late twentieth century, Gary Numan even! Have you no soul you
philistine!"
I groaned in reply "Yes I know, 'We Take Mystery To Bed' 1982,
Beggars Banquet Records. I like it but I prefer to be awake to like
it." I closed my
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