“All aboard,” commands the conductor.
The only ones left on the platform are the boy in short pants playing with stick and motionless, one-sided hoop and the granny in lace mobcap hawking apples which nobody buys and never go bad. They ignore him.
The locomotive releases a small cloud of steam. With no last-minute boarders in sight, the conductor, his arm dead-still, waves the go ahead to the engineer…
…The child arises from the viewing divan and stretches its many limbs, admits, “I’m tired.”
A nap of, say a billion of the ‘Irreth’ simulatron’s years, sounds good.
It steps on to the flowing mobius leading, among other places, to its somnolence field. Unable to resist, it casts an affectionate glance backward at its apperception portico.
The parents notice the look, smile knowingly as they join their child on the mobius. After dropping off their youngest for sleep time, they continue on to their respective viewing chambers.
For the nth time, in the arrogance of racial pride and a purblind provincialism, they rejoice in the fact that they are the apotheosis of creation and can watch with such pleasure the antics of all the lesser beings.