"We are programmed for smooth operation."

"So'm I," Reggie said, inching over.

Shirley inched too, till she was leaning back against the side. "You really provide comfort, car."

"Just give me a chance," Reggie offered, sliding over farther.

"Even a bar!" Shirley rose and spun over Reggie's lap to the door side, to exam the autobar panel. "There're no pressure patches!"

"I am programmed for oral input, mademoiselle."

"Wonderful!" Shirley settled back again. "Chablis, if you don't mind."

"I'll take a martini," Reggie sighed. It looked as though that was all he was going to get, for the time being.

"Don't you think you might wait for the food to catch up to the alcohol?"

"What'sh to worry? I haven't had all that many," Reggie said breezily.

Shirley held her breath till the breeze had passed; it had rather high octane.

"Would monsieur care to order?"

Reggie glowered up at the waiter. Probably learned his accent from watching old movies. "Yeah, uh—juh prefer-ray un verr dough fresh."

"Bon, monsieur," the waiter said, straight-faced, ignoring the glass of ice water sitting in front of Reggie and the pinching of Shirley's lips. "And for the entree?"

"Yeah, uh—boof burganyone." He looked up at Shirley. "You were talking about the chicken?"

Shirley nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Blanks duh capon cordone blue."

Shirley winced.

"Bon, monsieur." The waiter jotted the order with a flourish and took their menus.

"And, uh—make the boof well done, would you?"

"Well done, monsieur." The waiter made an ostentatious note on his pad. "Will there be anything else?"

"Nah, that's fine."

The waiter inclined his head and turned away.

"Did I hear it right?" Shirley demanded. "Did you actually tell him to make your boeuf bourguignon well done?"

"Yeah, sure." Reggie frowned. "I don't like it bloody."

"Sh!" Shirley glanced frantically at the neighboring tables, but apparently no one there was British—or else they were well bred. Then she leaned forward to hiss, "What do you think boeuf bourguignon is—steak?''

"Well, sure. I mean, steak is beef—so…"

"Beef is steak. Sure." Shirley nodded, resigned. "Flawless logic, Plato."

"Hey!" Reggie frowned. "I ain't no mouse's dog! Come on, Shirl."

"Shirley," she snapped.

Reggie sighed, leaning back in his chair as he began to realize that the evening was not going well. He wondered why she was such a stickler about using her whole name. The girls back in college had been that way, too—or at least, at his last college, the big one his pop had bought him into after the business started, really paying off. Back at Sparta C.C. the girls had been the all-right kind, but these big college skirts were a bunch of snobs.

Like Shirl. Shirley.

"So what do you want to do after dinner? Take in a movie?"

She brightened. "Wonderful idea—I always love those old flat-screen shows."

Reggie winced; that hadn't been what he'd had in mind.

"Bergman's Seventh Seal is playing at the Cinema Classiqe."

The closest Reggie had ever come to Bergman was a film course he had taken in junior college; he had passed it by getting enthusiastic Rathskellar descriptions from students who had seen the assigned movies. "Hey, maybe live theater would be more like it. I could get tickets to a nudie show at one of those off-off-off-Broadway places."

Shirley managed to keep the shudder down to her shoulders. "Why don't we just go to a cabaret?"

"Yeah!" Reggie said, with a lascivious grin.

"Not that kind! I know where there's a nice soft-jazz group playing."

Reggie sighed. "Okay, baby, it's your party."

"I'm fully grown, Reggie."

"Boy, are you ever!… Oh. Uh, sorry…"

"Your soup, sir."

Reggie looked up to see the waiter smiling benevolently. He looked down at a cup of soup that had materialized in front of him, then looked back up, but the waiter had already whisked himself away.

Shirley sighed and took up her soup spoon.

Reggie frowned at the array before him, then picked up a teaspoon. "Never did like them round bowls. Hard to get in the mouth, you know?"

Shirley managed a smile.

"Reggie, don't you think you've had enough?"

"Nah. This group didn't start sounding good till after the second one." Reggie eyed the all-female jazz group, wishing that their strapless gowns didn't defy gravity quite so successfully. "How come they're keeping 'em opaque?"

"Those dresses are made of real cloth, Reggie—not polarized plastic."

Reggie shook his head, irritated. " 'S too bad. If y' got it, y' oughta show it." His groggy glance strayed back to Shirley.

"Don't even think about it!"

"Well, maybe the floor show…"

"I don't think I want to wait for it." Shirley stood up with sudden decision. "Reggie, I'm getting sleepy. Let's go."

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Sure!" Reggie brightened.

"Just sleepy," Shirley said firmly.

"Awright, awright," Reggie grumbled, bumping the table as he lurched to his feet. He frowned down at the spot of alcohol spreading over his shirt front. "Well… it'll dry."

Shirley frowned at the upset glass and the rivulet of gin coursing toward the table edge. She picked up a napkin, tossed it on the spill, and turned away.

Then she turned back, fumbling in her handbag. Reggie had bumbled out without leaving a tip.

Reggie grinned, and the car swooped down. Shirley shrieked, and he smirked with satisfaction. Look down her nose at him, would she? Well, she'd find out how great he really was! He might not be much at the dinner table, but he was something else when he got physical. When she saw how great he was behind the wheel, she'd realize how nuclear he must be in bed.

"Look out! You're going to hit that building!"

"Nah. Six to spare, easy."

The aircar swerved aside, missing the eighty-third story of the Empire State Building by two inches, not six.

"Not sleepy any more, are you?" Reggie gloated.

"No, but I'm getting a headache you wouldn't believe! Reggie, please put the car back on computer pilot!"

"That old lady?" Reggie made a rude noise. "You can't stay on comp if you wanna have fun!"

"If I wanted a variable-grav ride, I'd go to Coney Island," Shirley moaned.

"Aw, come on." Reggie nosed down and went into a power dive. "Driving's fun."

Shirley screeched and clawed the upholstery, rigid as an icicle.

"Oh, all right!" Reggie leveled off, pouting.

"Thank Heaven!" Shirley went half-limp. "Reggie, please put me down! Or find me an airsick bag, fast!"

"Hey, no! The upholstery's brand new!"

"I'm not going to have much choice about it," Shirley groaned.

"Oh, all right, all right!" Disgusted, Reggie slowed the car and started a sedate descent. Shirley went the other half limp, breathing in slow, steady gasps. "I… never… want to go… through something like that… again!"

"No chance you will, the way this date is going," Reggie muttered to himself as he watched a police car swoop by overhead. "Wonder what's the matter with him?"

"Oh, just after a drunk driver, probably." Shirley took a deep breath and sat up straight as the car gently grounded. "Are we down yet?"

"We are in contact with the earth's surface," the computer assured her, "or, at least, the pavement over it."

"Good." Shirley lurched up, grabbing the manual door handle and hauling it back.

"Hey! Whatcha doing?" Reggie protested.

"I," Shirley answered, "am getting out."

"Silly dumb broad." Reggie huddled in the corner of the seat, glowering at the instrument display across from him, sipping another martini. The instrument cluster was beginning to seem kind of removed, but that was okay—the alcohol was beginning to lift him from the funk the evening had put him in. "What does she know, anyway?"