No one was there. The water was still, the lights around the pool gleaming on its blue surface. People sometimes swam on warm summer nights, but tonight it was quiet. He had never used the pool, but the idea of sitting out there and getting a tan suddenly appealed to him. Maybe he would do that tomorrow, he thought, remembering he had an old pair of swimming trunks he hadn’t worn in years. He then did another thing he hadn’t done in years and that was pour himself a glass of Jack Daniels to sip and listen to an old Mose Allison record, remembering he liked his jazz and satirical lyrics. He sat down on his recliner, leaned back, turned off the lamp, making the room dim. He sipped his drink and listened to the steady dissonant chords and Mose singing in his distinctive southern drawl about not being disillusioned, “no I'm not disillusioned, but I’m getting there.” That line always made Paul chuckle. He remembered how he had been feeling for the past year or so, maybe longer, hating. I knew what that felt like.We had left the port docks and were now approaching the shipyard.“AI, I assume we have vector and clearance into the berth we have been assigned?”“Please continue to navigate our way into the berth. You have the helm.”We docked at the shipyard without incident.I was satisfied, mission complete, and we’d done something different, having the AI pretty much control a ship movement by itself.“OK, everybody off the ship so the shipyard can do its work” I ordered. “AI, shut the ship down, except for the transporter pad.”Ensign Williams and PFC Wilson preceded me to the transporter pad and we all went back to Truman.Back at the Sheep Pen I found Sergeant White having a conversation with the AI.“So, nobody is wondering why on some dishes hardly anyone ever orders them again?”“Argh. What I mean is, has no one tried to fix why the crabmeat and shellfish are so terrible?”“So you only have one sample of them, cooked, that you can work with?”“And if I want the only.
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