The man in the Antares bar-lounge didn t quite bang his head<br >on the curved star-ceiling on this， his fourth attempt. Or<br >maybe it was his fifth. This failure came as a disappointment<br >to a number of the luxurious lounge s more vocal occupants.<br > When standing erect--a rare happenstance， of late the<br >fellow stood just under two meters tall. A haberdasher worth<br >his salt would have estimated his mass at about two hundred<br >kilos. This not counting the booze he d been putting away at<br >a prodigious rate. That he d even managed to come close to<br >the lroof of the lounge and its simulacrum Terran sky was duo<br >in pa~t to his considerable stature.<br > Sta~ting from the far end of the lounge he d make a mad<br >elephant sprint toward the bar， leap onto the polished maple-<br >wood counter， and soar ceilingward from that deep-grained<br >launch pad. A reach， stretch， grab， and down he d come in a<br >spectacular displacement of plastic bottles， glasses， and swizzle<br >sticks. Whereupon he d fight off the angry flailings of the robot<br >bartender， now on the verge of electron psychosis， stagger be-<br >tween the tables， and try again.<br > Now he struggled to his feet， downed another slug of what-<br >ever it was he was currently drinking， and stumbled toward<br >his launch point. His elegantly clad， youngish cheering section<br >spurred him along. Among this group， the sporting blood<br >was up. Bets continued to be exchanged. Would he finally kill<br >himself by falling on his swozzled skull this fifth (or sixth)<br >time? Or would he simply knock himself out by successfully<br >cracking it against the roof?<br > Three-dimensional cumulus clouds， fat and fleecy， drifted<br >across the dome. For all their apparent reality they were only<br >clever projections on treated duralloy. Still， while this kanga-<br ><br >