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'Chris,' said Bernice.

'Really, really safe.'

'We're not your parents.'

Chris glanced at Roz who sighed and gestured vaguely with her hand. Chris whooped and ran for the waterline, hands busy with the straps of his armour as he went.

'He'd only sulk,' said Roz.

There was another shout and Chris dived into the surf. His footprints were clearly visible in the pristine sand. Bits of discarded armour were strewn to either side. They saw his blond head surfacing beyond the line of breakers. He waved and then vanished from sight.

Bernice looked over at the tables. 'Do you think that's really a bar? I don't see a service area.'

'Only one way to find out,' said Roz.

They sat down at the nearest table. The chairs appeared to be moulded out of rigid white plastic but Bernice felt the material shift subtly under her weight, making the chair more comfortable. When she leaned back to look for Chris the chair leaned back with her. 'He certainly got out of that armour fast enough.'

'You learn the technique when you're at the Academy,' said Roz. 'In case the armour gets contaminated or compromised in some way. There are ancillary benefits too.'

'I'll bet,' said Bernice. 'Can you do it that fast? I mean he didn't even break his stride.'

'Faster,' said Roz, 'when I was younger.'

'But not any more?'

'I haven't had much reason to try,' said Roz. 'Not recently.'

Bernice pretended to examine the table top, hoping that Roz would say more, give a little, maybe strip off some of the armour she was wearing on the inside. The table was made from the same white plastic as the chairs, its top covered in what Bernice recognized as writing. It looked a bit like Arabic, if you thought Arabic was written top to bottom in a dayglo orange scrawl.

Roz looked around. 'What do you have to do to get a drink around here?'

'Ask,' said the table.

Both women, very slowly, bent down and looked under the table. There was nothing except a small oval of shaded sand, a heavy base and the thin column that supported the table. Their eyes met briefly. Roz raised an eyebrow.

'Look,' said the table, 'do you want a drink or not?'

Bernice banged her head on the underside of the table. She heard Roz cursing. Both women slowly and with infinite nonchalance resumed an upright posture in their chairs.

Bernice cleared her throat. 'Who wants to know?' she asked.

'I do,' said the table. The voice was light, conversational and sounded entirely human. 'If you don't want a drink, I can offer you a wide range of snacks, delicacies –'

'Are you sentient?' asked Bernice. Roz was surreptitiously looking around for a speaker grill.

'Of course I'm not sentient,' said the table. 'I'm a table. I have two functions, one is to hold material objects at a convenient height by virtue of my rigid structure and the other is to take your order. What would be the point in a sentient table?'

Bernice considered this. She had to admit it was a good point.

'I lived in an apartment with a door that acted like this,' said Roz. 'It had a nasty accident involving a wide beam disintegrator and three metres of quick-drying epoxy resin.'

'We'll have a drink,' said Bernice quickly.

'Good,' said the table. 'What do you want to drink?'

'What have you got?' asked Roz.

'There's a menu in front of you,' said the table.

Bernice looked down. The dayglo Arabic was scrolling towards the edges of the table, new strings of writing spooling out of a null point at its centre. Bernice sighed. 'We can't understand the menu,' she said. 'Can you give us a verbal summary?'

'Hey,' said the table smugly. 'You name it we've got it.'

'In that case,' said Bernice, 'I'll have an exaggerated sexual innuendo with a dash of patriot's spirit and extra mushrooms. Roz?'

'I'll have the same,' said Roz, 'but with an umbrella in it.'

'Coming right up,' said the table.

'And get us some shade here while you're at it,' said Roz.

A parasol-shaped forcefield opened above their heads and turned opaque. 'Now, that's slick,'

said Bernice.

Roz shrugged, as if forcefield parasols were an everyday occurrence