Just off the street, down a narrow alley, they wait:

Fanci Ostenburg: slightly tall, slim, in faded blue jeans and a white silk blouse. She looks to be about eighteen but she's really older. And a young man: khaki trousers and a button down shirt; he's good looking in a sandy-haired, nondescript sort of way. He appears to be about thirty. Fanci doesn't know him — neither do we, but it doesn't matter. His purpose here is to serve as a foil for Fanci.

"Screeeeek . . . " the door opens . . . into what appears to be a small warmly lit entrance hall . . . "Clunk," the door slams and the sudden switched-on glare of three blinding spotlights turns the cozy entrance hall into a goddamned stage, and there they are, standing together center-stage — it's an elevated alcove, built back into the darkened front wall of a large crowded room, with two hundred people watching to see what they do next.

His initial instinct is to turn and run, but something keeps him standing there . . . you can't quite define it . . . the pull of the place . . . a kind of magic . . . if you can stand it. "Screeeeek . . . Clunk" . . . It's not your ordinary nightclub — and it's certainly not for everyone . . . but if you're good looking . . . or interesting . . . 

"Where the hell are we?" he exclaims.
She turns to him and smiles, "Welcome to The Machine."

The white blouse has long sleeves and a Chinese collar that buttons high around her throat. The jeans fit her tightly, down to where they flare slightly just above her knees. And sandals. Her toenails glimmer almost blue in the iridescent light.
Nice — but hardly remarkable — were it not that where her breasts stop being breasts and start being her belly, the blouse simply ends, and the faded blue jeans are hip huggers. The way her body is made, they ride at least six inches below her naked belly button. She lazily stretches her arms behind her head and pretends to refasten a barrette in her hair.

He watches as she walks across the room to the bar, leans against the edge of a stool and speaks to the bartender. She doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to him.
A tall handsome boy with a deep tan and a store-bought surfer look walks over and stands behind her.
"You don't even have a barrette," he chides her.
Without looking up she quips, "I must have lost it." Then she turns and looks coolly up at him, "No one is looking at my hair anyway."

"Can I buy you a beer?" he asks in his 'I’m Mr. Wonderful' barritone.
"No thank you," she replies icily; "I've already ordered one."
He leaves and two more of them drift over. She speaks a few words with them but they get nowhere either. Then she stands up and walks over to Rand's table. "Would you mind too much if I sit here with you? Maybe then these guys will leave me alone."
"Go ahead," he says.
She slides an empty chair over to the table and sits down.
"I’m Fanci."
"Yes, I know, I met you once before. I’m Rand."
She looked at him closely.
"Last winter. In your gallery. Fantaciworks."
"Oh yes," she said, but it was obvious she didn’t remember.

Months later, after it was over, he told a friend about her.
"I'll be damned," the friend exclaimed, "She picked you up."
"Yes, I guess she did."
"She just walked over and picked you up. You didn’t do a thing.”
"I did buy her two beers."
"Big deal."
"Well? Later that night she took me home with her."
"I’ll be damned. She just walked in a bar, picked you up out of the whole goddamn place, and took you home with her?"
"She wasn't much for waiting," Rand laughed, "but first we went to The Cadillac."
"What's The Cadillac?"
"A place where performance artists perform."