“I told you all this earlier,” said Ashley in a strained tone.

“Humans don’t drink oil—at least, not on its own—and only organically derived.”

“Are you sure?” replied Roger, sorting through the bottles in the cabinet again, as though hoping something suitable might miraculously appear. “We’re a bit short on everything else.”

“A glass of water would be fine for me—I could have one of those.” She pointed to an array of jars on the mantelpiece.

“Ah,” said Roger with an embarrassed cough, “those are our memory jars. We like to have at least one backup.”

“Oh,” said Mary, blushing at the faux pas.

“I’ll get you a glass from the kitchen,” said Abigail and scampered off.

“… and seen the Dorf army scatter in the wake…” muttered Uncle Colin, still to himself.

“A toast,” announced Roger as soon as Abigail had returned with Mary’s water and everyone had been handed an oil of some sort and Ashley told he couldn’t have multigrade but would have to stick to olive “until he was older.” “A toast,” he said again, “to the excellent bispecies understanding we currently enjoy.”

“10001010110,” said Abigail, raising her glass and downing it in a single gulp.

“10001010110,” said Ashley, doing the same.

“10001010110,” said Roger, winking at Mary.

“10001010110,” said Mary, and they all stared at her and blinked for some moments in silence.

“Well, I think you’re mistaken,” said Abigail eventually. “My mother never would have done that, and certainly not to herself.”

“What did I say?” asked Mary, looking at Ashley for support.

“… and fought through the spice mines of Kessel…” droned on Uncle Colin.

“Dinner, anyone?” said Roger as a timer pinged in the kitchen, and everyone sprinted for the table, leaving Mary to bring up the rear.

“Has anyone seen Daisy?” asked Abigail, bringing in a large basket full of chips.

“She went out earlier,” said Ashley a bit impishly, “with that 10010111110101 rabble from across the road.”

“She’ll come to a sticky end,” said Roger.

“I think that was her intention,” replied Ashley with an amused squeak.

“Ashley,” scolded Abigail, “I won’t have that sort of gutter talk at dinner. Mary, be a darling and pass the toothpaste.”

Mary picked up what she thought must be the condiment basket and passed it up the table. Abigail carefully chose some Colgate and squeezed it onto her chips with some diesel oil out of a jug.

“Would you like some more?” asked Roger.

“I haven’t had anything yet,” pointed out Mary.

“I mean, would you like your more first?” replied Roger with a trace of annoyance.

“Do you like Marmite?” asked Abigail quite suddenly.

“Not really.”

And they all applauded by tapping their sucker digits together. It sounded like twelve popguns going off in unison.

“Is this what Rambosians eat?” asked Mary politely. “Chips?”

“Goodness!” said Abigail, suddenly rising from the table and running into the kitchen, only to return a few seconds later with another plate. “I almost forgot the Pop-Tarts.”

Mary didn’t eat any Pop-Tarts but found some vinegar to put on her chips. The conversation was pretty mundane and centered on Roger’s and Abigail’s jobs in the library, with Uncle Colin’s recollections occasionally rising above a murmur in the background.

“…so we put it in ‘oversized books,’ which is a highly unsatisfactory way of categorizing anything…”

“…outran a supernova in the Crab Nebula…”

“…so I memorized every word in every book, so customers can ask for anything with even the vaguest reference to their subject…”

“…suggested we taught binary as part of the open university’s language department—I ask you…”

“…binary keyboards are much simpler, of course—only one key…”

“…seen fusion bursts above the Plain of Squrrk…”

The conversation moved around to Big Brother after that, and the news that Cousin Eric had applied to be on the show but had been turned down because he lacked severe mental problems and it might have had a bad influence on the others.

“Pudding?” asked Abigail.

“Yes, please,” said Mary, who didn’t think she could eat just chips. Abigail vanished into the kitchen and then returned with another basket of chips.

“Dessert!” she announced to an approving chorus from the family.

“More chips?” said Mary, leaning closer to Ashley.

“Yes,” he replied, “only eaten this time with a spoon—does anyone want to play KerPlunk! after dinner?”

“Can I show you something?” said Ashley once the meal was over and they had played KerPlunk! twice, and Binary Scrabble, which was fundamentally flawed, since every possible combination of ones and zeros made a word and it was impossible not to put down all your tiles, anywhere you wanted and in any order, every single turn.

“Sure.”

Ashley took her outside, opened the garage door and beckoned her inside. He flicked on the lights to reveal a double garage that had most of the usual junk one might expect to find: a discarded weight-training machine, a bicycle or two, a power mower, tools and a workbench. It was all aligned, precisely, of course—order pervades every aspect of a Rambosian’s life. In the middle of the garage was a large object covered with a bedsheet.

“I tinker with this in my spare time,” announced Ashley, pulling off the sheet to reveal a translucent sphere about ten feet in diameter. It was entirely smooth, was floating about six inches off the floor, had no apertures and did not seem to contain anything at all.

“Amazing!” said Mary. “What is it?”

“Step aboard,” said Ashley. “If you think my Datsun is the last word in personal transportation, think again!”

And so saying, he stepped through the translucent covering and into the sphere. The surface just seemed to part when he touched it and then close again as soon as he passed through. Mary stared at it a little apprehensively and put out a hand to touch the surface, which felt soft and warm and parted away from her fingers.

“You’re not going to abduct me and then conduct medical experiments or something, are you?” she asked.

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

Mary smiled and stepped into the bubble, which parted and then re-formed around her. She felt the whole thing sink slightly, a bit like the suspension on a car.

“Have a seat,” said Ashley.

Mary looked around. There didn’t seem to be one.

“The ship is made of a living predictive polymer,” explained Ashley. “It will form itself under you.”

Mary went to sit down, and sure enough the surface of the bubble expanded and merged to form a seat beneath her.

“How does it work?” she asked, awestruck.

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“I thought you guys were some sort of advanced super-race or something?”

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” he replied with an amused squeak. “Do you know how a cell phone works?”

“Not really. Something digital and radio waves, towers… and stuff.”

“It’s the same with this. There’s antigravitons and bioconducive plastoids in it somewhere, but I’m not too clear on the details.”

Ashley placed his central sucker digit on the only control that could be seen anywhere inside the strange craft—a single push-button switch.

“One button to control all this?” said Mary. “That’s it?”

“It’s a new development,” explained Ashley, pressing the button on and off so fast it sounded like a staccato bumblebee. “We used to have two buttons—one for on and one for off, but then after about forty thousand years someone pointed out you could actually do the same job with one. It destroyed the switch industry on Rambosia almost overnight. Hang on.”

The globe rose another six inches off the floor and rotated slowly to the right, then reversed into the tool bench, knocking over a half-built birdhouse that Roger had told them all about earlier.