There were a couple of other girls in front of her chatting away about the last evening’s television and similar things. “How was your dinner part...,” one said. “Ah,” the other responded, “did you hear that news item that said dinner parties would be less dull if guests were banned from small talk and had to discuss things like global warming and what to do about political disenchantment.” “Something like,” responded the other. “Well, one of the suggestions was ‘the art of the dominatrix’. Take. Should have known better, but I was in a wild mood.” She pulled a blade from its sheath at her hip. “Worth it, though. Never seems to go dull.” Raven put away her knife and tugged on the iron ring that served as a handle for the door into the earth, but it didn’t budge. “Damn. Grass is thick as hell. Give me a hand.” Mindblind grabbed the ring and pulled, easily opening the door, and uprooting large clumps of grass in the process. “Old storm shelter. I’d bet that there isn’t a soul that even. More

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