The Gaming Outpost

An hour later, you have another of Bill Gate’s Home-cooked Delites. This time its a slice of country ham rolled around a filling of tomato relish, chopped up jalopeno, and black olives with a dessert of rhubarb pie.

You quench your thirst by walking over to the sink.

“Rise.” It lifts itself up to a convenient height to you. “Water.” You declaim. The sink begins to fill with room temperature water. You drink your fill from the faucet, and then thoughtfully say to it.

“Colder.” The temperature drops twenty degrees.

Now at last not panicked, not hungry or thirsty, and not too badly injured, and a lot dirty you have time to think.

A flash of light at your computer. Electricity and water did not mix you were only too aware.

Shivering you shove that aside for a less painful mystery. You can deal with that later you decide hurriedly.

The waitress had babbled in some foreign tongue and then served an omellette with parsnips. But you had been able to read the words on her menu.

And the water sink seemed to understand you. With a flash of memory you recall the police mini-copter chasing you, and yelling at you in good clear English.

Why was the writing and the machines English, but the people were not?

It made no sense.

The too-low toilet was run by a handle, but the sink and the freezer chests were run by voice command. And your voice is decidedly different than the locals.

Plus there was that dog that spoke clearly to you.

Your head is beginning to ache a bit, and you walk over to the sink and get water to gently slosh over your face and the scabbing wound.

Other needs make themselves apparent. Food that comes in, must come out. So you go to the bathroom, and for a second you stare at the strangely low toilet with the ruffle around it.

Curious, you decide, and with a small grin say a word.

“Up.”

The toilet rises to a height appropriate for an adult and not a toddler, and the fringe expands under the bowl to cover the new height from the floor.

Simple.

Once down, you go back outside. The toilet flushes on its own. And with a sudden grin, you understand part of it.

You’ve known more than a few girls who were embarrassed about their bodily functions being heard. So no one wanted to say ‘flush’, but other voice commands were standard.

Which still left the problem how the appliances understood the locals language which had to be somehow based on English, yours.

Experimentally, you speak one of the few Spanish words you know to the sink.

“Agua.” This meant water.

Water came.

What was Spanish for hot? Ah.

“Caliente.”

The temperature jumped about twenty degrees to a nice warmth. After stopping it, you tried the other English word for water.

“H2O.” Dihydrogen Monoxide flowed in a clear stream from the faucet.

You tried to think of another word for water, and all that came was ‘loch’ as in Loch Ness Monster. Loch was the Scottish word for lake.

“Loch.”

Nothing.

You cast about in your mind for some French or Russian or Japanese word for water, but nothing came. With your mind fully fixed on water, you grumbled trying to get a word out somehow.

The water flowed.

You stared in amazement. Apparently ‘rmgrph.’ qualified as water in some language. But that was highly unlikely you intuited with a chill wind going down your back.

You envisioned water again and spoke.

“Sinork.”

Water flowed.

“Masprit.” Water.

“Dokar.” Water.

And for the last test you envisioned as strongly as you could ‘Water’ while saying ‘Stop Water.’

Water flowed.

The sink was reading your mind.

Goosebumps ran up and down your arms, and your throat felt suddenly tight as you found yourself gently dropping to the floor to sit there for a while, rocking back and forth.

The sink had read your mind.

Ohhhh….wow.