A bee-hexagon suddenly falls out of our eyes, into the untextured dark. Down into the dark machine, where a system of levers and lights will measure its weight against an unknown standard... don't worry, this valuable hex will be certified as a-ok, useable as local currency, and with a clack the great vending machine will grind, and deliver whatever soda or destiny or weapon we wanted to buy... the purchase dropping with a heavy thud out of the invisible universe inside the machine, dropping like the moon out of the sky onto Jacob's helmeted head.     It was the dead wife of Zoltan Abbassid. She was calling from the moon.