Gina eyed me skeptically. “That’s ancient history. And you’re only arguing that position to try to squirm out of your own responsibilities.”

“Of course. But the point is … gender migration is ninety per cent politics . Some coverage still treats it as a kind of decadent, gratuitous, fashionable mimicry of gender reassignment for transsexuals – but most gender migrants go no further than superficial asex. They don’t cross right over; they have no reason to. It’s a protest action, like resigning from a political party, or renouncing your citizenship … or deserting a battlefield … but whether it will stabilize at some low level, and shake up attitudes enough to remove the whole reason for migration, or whether the population will end up evenly divided between all seven genders in a couple of generations, I have no idea.”

Gina grimaced. “Seven genders – and all of them perceived as monolithic. Everyone stereotyped at a glance. Seven pigeon-holes instead of two isn’t progress.”

“No. But maybe in the long run there’ll only be asex, umale and ufem. Those who want to be pigeon-holed will be – and those who don’t will remain mysterious.”

“No, no – in the long run we’ll have nothing but VR bodies, and we’ll all be mysterious or revelatory in turns, as the mood takes us.”

“I can’t wait.”

We went inside. Unnatural Tastes was a converted department store, cavernous but brightly lit, opened up by the simple expedient of cutting a large elliptical hole in the middle of every floor. I waved my notepad at the entry turnstile; a voice confirmed our reservation, adding, “Table 519. Fifth floor.”

Gina smiled wickedly. “Fifth floor: stuffed toys and lingerie.”

I glanced up at our fellow diners – mostly umale and ufem couples. I said, “You behave yourself, redneck, or next time we’re eating in Epping.”

The place was three-quarters full, at least, but the seating capacity was less than it seemed; most of the volume of the building was taken up by the central well. In what was left of each floor, human waiters in tuxedos weaved their way between the chromed tables; it all looked archaic and stylized, almost Marx Brothers, to me. I wasn’t a big fan of Experimental Cuisine; essentially, we’d be guinea pigs, trying out medically safe but otherwise untested bioengineered produce. Gina had pointed out that at least the meal would be subsidized by the manufacturers. I wasn’t so sure; Experimental Cuisine had become so fashionable lately that it could probably attract a statistically significant sample of diners for each novelty, even at full price.

The tabletop flashed up menus as we took our seats – and the figures seemed to confirm my doubts about a subsidy. I groaned. “‘Crimson bean salad’? I don’t care what color they are, I want to know what they taste like . The last thing I ate here that looked like a kidney bean tasted exactly like boiled cabbage.”