He ambled through the vast dining hall with its multitude of white-clothed tables, its potted palms, its modernistic, chromium bar. The high walls were decorated with soft-hued, multi-colored murals depicting the rise of Western Civilization--first, the pioneers, the cowboys, then a factory scene and a war scene, and finally a group of spacemen entering a moon-bound rocket. Martin made a wheezing sound of admiration. "What a place, eh, Sandy? We should have come here a long time ago." Then he spied the juke box. "There's one of them music machines--and it's lit up. Reckon the power's still on." Martin had always wanted to play a juke box, but nickels, back home, were scarce. He pursed his lips. "Why not, Sandy? Nickels don't mean much now, and if this is going to be our last meal, we might as well enjoy it." He inserted a quarter, and after a few moments of pushing this and that button, music played. It was "Song of The Stars," the latest hit, vibrant, full, rhythmic--not at all like the screeching from the second-hand video he'd owned once. While he listened, he strode to the bar. Not that he was a drinking man. He occasionally had a cold beer on Saturday evening; that was all. But now, with that dazzling array of bottles glittering before him--"Nobody'll miss it now," he told Sandy. He poured himself three fingers of Scotch and downed it thirstily. "Ahhhh! Been a long time since I had anything like that. Now let's see what's in that kitchen." Electricity was still on. Refrigerators were humming, and Martin's gaze wandered appraisingly over red, juicy T-bones, over dressed chickens, turkeys, rabbits, hams. "Reckon we're too hungry to wait for chicken," he drawled. "Guess T-bones'd be nice for a last meal. How about it, Sandy?" Sandy barked. Dinner was soon ready. Fried T-bone, mashed potatoes and dark gravy, caviar, some kind of soup with a fishy taste, apple pie with strawberry ice cream, chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, maple nut, tuiti-fruiti and pineapple ice cream, and coffee. Martin settled back and puffed on a 50c cigar. "You know, Sandy, it wouldn't always be like this. In a couple of weeks there won't be any more power. Food will spoil, there'll be only canned stuff." He frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps suicide was not the best way. He could have a few pleasures in the next day or two--if madness didn't come. And if madness did start to come, well.... * * * * * It was a sleek, streamlined jet job, the automobile of automobiles. Not an antiquated monstrosity like the '51 coupe he'd been driving. He stared through the window at its tear-drop lines, at its broad, transparent top, at the shiny chrome and gold. "We shouldn't be thinking about such things, Sandy. We should be thinking about all those people, those poor people who died. All the men and women and children--"