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“For this demonstration I have asked it to give you what you would most like. “The Chocolatier does only what its lawful owner desires,” said Ballantine. “It produces confectionery only,” said Ballantine. “Can it pick a winning horse?” said Hedge. “The Chocolatier uses quantum technology to predict what would most please you,” said Ballantine. “It seems to know what we want,” said O’Mara. “I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.” He blew on it, and it made a whirring noise. “A propeller ring!” he said, putting it on his finger. Caramel popcorn tumbled out alongside a brightly coloured plastic toy. As he chewed, he tipped the box over his open hand. “Cracker Jack!” He ripped the box open and shook it into his open mouth. Something dropped into view through the opening. “It’s an old chip, silly goose,” said Hedge.Ī thump came from the Chocolatier. “You promised you weren’t going to gamble anymore,” said O’Mara. He rummaged in his pockets and came up with a casino chip, which he slipped into the machine. “Rosewater!” She popped the rest of the chocolate into her mouth for another taste of that yearned-for time, before money and Hedge’s gambling debts came to trouble her. Suddenly she was five years old, in India with her grandfather in the market, eating a sweet he had bought her, spongy and soaked in syrup with the stray cows, and dogs and bright blue- and purple-painted sandstone buildings all around her. The chocolate shone red under the display lights. The Chocolatier vibrated briefly, then a chocolate truffle on a square of purple foil slid from the opening. The token clunked as it dropped into the slot. “I don’t have any coins, but I have this.” O’Mara took a silver arcade token out of her bag. Hedge looked at O’Mara, and she searched her handbag. Read more science fiction from Nature Futures “Put a coin in the slot and see what comes out.” “So, it’s a vending machine.” Hedge glanced under the table.
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“Tarrington’s Chocolatier can make you any confection you like,” said Ballantine. It was clear that she had done them up herself, as she had missed fastening one between her shoulder blades. She wore a knitted dress in burgundy with a row of brass buttons up the back. O’Mara, by contrast, was so plain that a curious observer might wonder what the attraction was. O’Mara’s friends called him a diamond in the rough, though ‘pyrite with pretensions’ was more accurate. “What does it do?” asked Hedge, clasping the hand of his fiancée, O’Mara. The proprietor, Mr Ballantine, of the simian hands and genotype of unknown provenance, said: “This is Tarrington’s Chocolatier.” It sat on a mahogany table in the heart of Ballantine’s Gifts. The object under scrutiny was a metal box with a slot in the top and a mouth-like opening at the front.