And so it goes on, a carousel of introductions and handshakes and backslaps and musky perfumes and ambassador's wives, ringing laughter like icecubes, gin and insincerity... He feels ghostly and distant again. He wants to laugh, but he feels too sad because the wine is wrong. It's white wine. He doesn't like white wine. He only likes red wine.
[Jaspers concentrates, and suddenly he is holding a glass of red wine. He smiles.]
A cabinet minister is telling a story about a nun and a rhesus monkey. The brittle shrieks of distant hostesses splinter against the smoke-blue glassiness of everything. A crooked man is smiling a crooked smile.
Emperor Rimmer: Enough of this heresy. At the stroke of dawn, take them out and kill them. And when you've killed them, burn the bodies, then bring me the cold ashes on a silver plate with a glass of chilled sancerre.