“No, not at first,” she answered. “Though alcohol played second fiddle, if that’s still a current idiom. Or third or fourth. Early voyagers were more interested in direct mental stimulations, a problem we carried with us from Earth. The stimulations became more sophisticated, and safer, and we found ways to treat personalities devoted to excess, chemical or neurological…. Alcohol was never a major worry, or a major recreation. Wines, if I remember, were cultivated…”

She seemed to enjoy a chance to talk history, especially when it delayed her decision on the rum. “But when the Way was built, and we had pushed back the Jarts, trade began through the wells. Talsit and other substances became known to us…complex intoxicants, enhancers, augmenters, not to mention the nuances of complete downloading. Alcohol and other chemical intoxicants were like kazoos.” (she emphasized the word, enjoying its alienness) “compared to a symphony orchestra.”

“Primitive treats still have their charm, though,” Kanazawa said.

“I’d hate to make a fool of myself,” Ram Kikura said softly, dipping her finger into the small glass, lifting it to her nose. “Esters and ketones. Very strong.”

“Destroys the brain,” Karen said, on the edge of being tipsy. “Might need to rent another.”

“Alcohol,” Ram Kikura began, pausing, realizing she was about to be sententious, “is still a problem on Earth. Am I right?”

“You are absolutely right,” Kanazawa said. “And a balm for our manifold wounds.”

“I dislike not being in control of myself.”

Karen leaned forward. “Drink it,” she said. “It actually tastes good. You don’t have to drink it all.”

“I know what it tastes like. I’ve had biochrones in city memory.”

“Biochrones?” Kanazawa asked.

“Not as popular now as they once were,” Lanier said. “Simulated full-life experiences. Edited, usually; the more extreme remove your awareness that they’re simulated. You live another life.”

“Jesus,” Kanazawa said, making an astonished, strongly disapproving face. “That’s almost like being…I know. Unfaithful to yourself.”

As they discussed the ethical dilemma of whether or not sex in a biochrone was tantamount, by older Earth standards, to cheating on one’s wedding vows, Ram Kikura brought the rum glass closer. Lanier could see she was attracted to it; she had always felt a connection with the past. When they had first met, she had picted an American flag over her shoulder, proud of her ancient ancestry; here was a bit of the past she knew little about, directly. Biochrone memories, he had heard, were not nearly as vivid as real ones; they couldn’t possibly be, without extraordinary implants, larger than practical in homorphs.

“All right,” she said, steeling herself and picking up the glass. “To being human!” She drank a much larger swallow than Lanier would have recommended. Her eyes widened and she spluttered, choking. Karen pounded her back unhelpfully.

“Ah, Pneuma!” Ram Kikura croaked when she was halfway in control again. “My body hates it!”