I've had another of those rare dreams I remember, and once again it's a pretty hard one to parse. It starts out in a modest-priced hotel suite, with me, bunny_hugger, and my sister-in-law and her husband, not working on anything particular. As we try to figure out why the DVD player and media center for the television set are enclosed in the floor-to-ceiling glass-doored refrigerator there's some commotion in the hallway. It turns out to be a bunch of the Voyager crew, who are rather urgently retreating from the invading Borg masses. I'm not that much of a Voyager fan, by the standards of Star Trek fandom, but I'd agree this is a fleeing situation.
Taking the stairwell down the roughly dozen floors --- since after all it is risky to use the elevator during invasion by cybernetic extraterrestrial monsters --- we got pretty well mixed up with the Voyager crew, only for them to give way as we reached the lowermost floors to a fleeing party made up of more Deep Space Nine characters. bunny_hugger and I were right up close with Constable Odo as we reached the second floor, site of the dramatic ballroom that stretches out over the parking lot and which resembles one of the student centers from my undergraduate days.
The Deep Space Nine folks started yelling about the Borg invasion, bringing complaints from the hotel staff of not another bunch of people in fan costumes pretending they were really from the 24th century. The hotel, it turns out, hosts a lot of Trek conventions and I believe it also had something like the Star Trek: The Experience thing, and I was reflecting on the realization that, yes, they must get this sort of thing all the time when the Deep Space Nine characters started chuckling --- Rene Aubejonois took off his face mask --- and the menace was passed. We sat down at cafeteria-style tables and looked over the program as this peculiar dream came to an end.
There must be people who have dreams with meanings that make a lick of sense, mustn't there?
Trivia: The cost of sending a wireless message from the RMS Titanic to shore was twelve shillings and sixpence for the first ten words, and nine cents per word after that; in modern currency, something like £30 for the first ten words and £2 for each additional word. Source: Signor Marconi's Magic Box, Gavin Weightman.
Currently Reading: From Failing Hands: The Story Of Presidential Succession, John D Feerick. A mid-1960s book I picked up on recommendation from long lurking in soc.history.what-if (I'm much too dull to actually contribute to the group), which reveals to me more about vice-presidents than I ever imagined knowing. It transpires that the presidential succession has mostly consisted of people agreeing the current succession scheme stinks and yet nobody has a better idea.