The elevator is the size of a small room, and is carpeted in the finest vermilion. True to the elevator’s elegant ancestry, it is the epitome of luxury. Gold leaf paneling depicting the archaic, extinct cycle of seasons trims all the corners, and the gleaming claws of neo-Victorian furniture sink in the carpeting.
A negro with a smile like a slice of watermelon is dressed in a red suit with gold buttons and epaulettes. A red and gold cap is pressed jauntily on his hair. He carries himself with great distinction and great articulation in which he welcomes each guest to seat themselves in the most comfortable position.
When he has activated the elevator, he serves them whiskey or champagne from a gilded liquor cabinet. He lights the cigars and cigarettes his guests take from his nimble fingers. Blue smoke pools at the ceiling. He is a source of small talk, the gestures of his white gloved hand like a flight of doves.
The genteel negro opens the door, smiling. “Welcome to the Grand Orbital Hotel!”