Frankly, Malcolm Moore couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
Which was why he was currently threading his way through the Commons of Shangri-la Station, decked out in his most threadbare woolen tunic (the one with the artistic wine and dung stains), his dirtiest cheap sandals, and his very finest bronze collar (the one that read MALCOLUM SERVUS).
The blank spot waited for the name of any person offering him a job. Adding the customer’s name would take only seconds with his battery-powered engraver, and he had a grinder in his room to smooth out the name again for the next trip. The metal was currently as shiny as his hopes and as empty as his belly.
Occasionally, Malcolm felt the pun inherent in his name had become a harbinger of plain bad luck.
”Well, my luck’s gotta change sometime,” he muttered, girding metaphorical loins for battle.
His destination, of course, was Gate Six. Tourists were already beginning to converge on its waiting area, milling about in animated groups and smiling clusters. Hangers-on thronged the vast Commons just to watch the show. A departure at Gate Six was an Event, worth watching even for those not making the trip. Tables at little cafes and bars, especially those in the “Roman City” section of the terminal, were filling up fast.
In “Urbs Romae” hot-dog stands took the form of ancient sausage-and-wine-vendor shops visible on the streets of ancient Rome, complete with vats of hot oil in which the hot dogs sizzled. Countersunk amphorae in the countertops brimmed with higher quality wine than anything down time. Better cafes were designed like temples, private courtyards, even colonnaded gardens complete with fountains and flowerbeds. The clink of glassware and the rich scents of coffee, warm pastries, and expensive liquor caressed Malcolms nostrils like a lover’s fingertips. His belly rumbled. God, he was hungry ….