For Lilian and the Indigos - Above Top Secret

I smiled and continued along the path after a final exchange of thanks. Little else stood
out at all, and none I felt the need to have in my life. As I walked the first few paces, I
gave placement orders to my house for the fountain, envisioning it standing where I
thought would best suit both the garden and the fountain, and knew that all would be
where I saw it in my mind when I got home.
I passed a band playing music with happy abandon, while many stopped to dance or
listen. Perhaps SoundMan Sam had taken up with others to create this sound and one of
the players I heard was him.
A short while later I tired of looking and listening, being hungry now, and yearning to
paint – something, anything… Whatever came out on the canvas.
Seeing a J.D. handy, I held the vision of my memory key strongly in my mind – the
image of a special moment in my life, that told my home J.D. that it was me – and
stepped into my house. I had given that key to my Datacube when I first had my home
constructed, and it could recognize my image no matter if I was sober or (seldom)
intoxicated. I never feared that someone would want to “break in,” as they called it in
the Old Days. Whatever for? Sure, someone might covet my Old couch, I suppose, or
one of my original paintings. But if someone wanted my Old couch badly enough to
implore me for it, I would willingly let it go to them, for it must mean more to them than
to me. And if anyone asks for my paintings, I am honored.
Asking for the fruits of another’s Love labors is the most common method of trade,
though many times the Laborer offers Its creations and they are usually taken gracefully.
I breathed deeply the scent of my garden, my jungle, then stepped along the path to the
kitchen. I knew I could have a meal, in perfect prime and preparation, laid before me, but
I found cooking a pleasure and usually did not rely fully on the replicator and serving
’botties.
I wanted something simple… To the replicator I asked, with visions of shell and yolk
and clearness, for three eggs. And then a handful of truffles, some butter freshly churned,
scallion and garlic, cream and cheese. I pulled the copper bowl from its place in my
cupboards, and my whisk as well. Breaking the eggs, I whipped, the shells being tossed
into the M.W.D. – the Molecular Waste Disposal, sort of a reverse replicator.
Setting aside the eggs, I chopped the truffles, the scallion, the garlic. Returning to the
eggs, I added cream and whipped. And whipped a bit more.
Next a skillet came out of my cupboards, and onto the heat it went. Butter was melted
and the chopped morsels leaped to a sizzle as I added them, stirring them, coating them in
creamery goodness. As brownness set in to the scallions and garlic, I scooped out a
spoonful to set aside, and turned once more to the eggs, and whipped again, then poured
them into the truffles and scallion and garlic.