To escape the rain, I make my way to the closest bar. The door is an ovoid bulge crowned by a triangular shape. A cleft divides it into two adjacent swellings. I walk in and the place falls silent. I feel myself scanned. The bar is occupied by pluxing Euroscribes. They seem to appreciate its Confucian climate. It is a purchased atmosphere. I advance, and the conversations resume. The room is 10 meters long. Its flexible walls form sloping folds. They secrete a chalky mucus that maintains the ambient moisture within limits. The surface is not a reflection of what is hidden beneath. Piercing it would disembowel the frame. The chairs are arranged to display a different pattern of tables depending on whether you make your way clockwise or counter-clockwise. Surprisingly, the seating arrangement does not expand the width of a section with every quarter turn. Instead, it expands with every full rotation. This allows the room to grow without having to change shape. The room opens in the back onto a second, cone-shaped room with a bloated section. Orders are expelled through two tubes on each side. There are three tables of four, four of three, and an odd couple at the end. When I am close enough, the barbot sends me a request to read the menu. I scroll down and order the jellyfish soup and a painkiller file. A payment request appears. I accept, download and execute. I feel a mild tingling sensation as my glands begin to secrete. I close my eyes and enjoy the pain ebb away. I wait. The couple at the table next to me is composed of a meaty middle-aged man and a sickly young woman. She stares at me blankly. The thin lines of her exoskeleton protrude from her sleeves. Her right hand caresses her left, like some small domestic animal. Unconcerned, he eats porcinely beside her. My order makes its way to my table with a hum. I tune my earplugs to taste ‘Brazil’ and start spooning the broth into my mouth.