The ceiling is lost in darkness. Sizzling bolts of laser light zigzag through 
the air. The walls are turning fields of stars and oversized trid displays 
flashing haute modern adverts and flickering scenes from the sunken dance floor. 
Adama’s table is one of many lining the aisles ringing the dance floor like
tiered balconies. The music is loud and ponderous, throbbing, vibrating. The 
dancers turn and bob like mannikins on strings. Tikki keeps her eyes moving. 
Most of the club’s patrons are dressed in Penumbra-style: glowing neon over
black; silvery monochrome that glints with pinpoints of light like stars; 
luminescent face paint. Males favor flowing shogun blouses and billowing 
trousers. Females tend toward kimonos and clinging gowns. Hair is samurai, cut 
back from the brow and knotted in back; or geisha, piled up on top in intricate 
weaves. Most of the bodies walking around look to have been sculpted at the better body salons. Credsticks are always glinting.