Rhythmic Bodily Movements In Public
With Feet Touching the Ground
Are Illegal and Strictly Prohibited by Law
United States Code of Federal Regulations §35028.20.

Gore involuntarily swayed to the Rolling Stones tune that was blasting on the sound system.
“Hey, buddy,” a large bouncer tapped him on the shoulder, “no dancing. Can’t you read?” the unfamiliar bouncer pointed to the sign.
Gore responded, “But I wasn’t moving my feet, only my hips.”
“Are you looking for trouble? Just take it to the launch area. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Gore did not argue the point further. He took Rice by the hand and led her over to one of the bars near the no-dance floor.
“Two blue ices,” Gore ordered from the young, conservatively kempt bartender. “A vodka-and-orange-juice flavored for the pretty lady, and a dark-rum-and-BushCoke flavored one for me.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
The couple stood at the bar and popped the crystals into their mouths. They listened to the music, checking out the Saturday-night crowd around them.
Gore screamed above the music, “My grandfather saw the first Stones clones play back in 2040.”
“Small world,” Rice screamed back. “My grandmother worked for Clear Channel and headed the project to dig them all up and get their DNA for cloning.”
“Impressive!”
The Clear Channel cloning project first produced viable, adult human clones in the year 2038. Multiple generations of the Rolling Stones Clear Channel clones had now been on tour for almost sixty years straight. By 2080, the Stones Clones were performing a new version of the 2005 song, Sweet Neo Con. Clear Channel had rewritten the critical lyrics to praise and support the Bush dynasty – the clones performed it without dancing in the slightest so as not to defy the Bush-backed no-dancing law.
A ticket for a show in the 22nd century cost about 1,000 dollars, more than a month’s salary for a full-time minimum-wage worker. The Stones clones had just released their one hundredth album, entitled “Satisfied? Never! More!!” Listeners had to buy a special electronic device, manufactured by a subsidiary of Clear Channel Global, Inc., to listen to any album. Consumers had to buy a new device to listen to each new album released by any band; normal hi-fi equipment and computers could not read the encoded music.
Gore and Rice climbed up a circular staircase to the semi-circular bar that ran along the edge of the dome and ordered two more blue ice crystals. About twenty-five feet below them, fifty people were already waiting to start floating in the Bloomberg Field above the launch area.
Gore looked above him at the DJ, who hovered weightlessly with his sound equipment just under the roof of the dome. Flashing strobe lights reflected off of smoke that billowed upwards from the floor.
The DJ gesticulated wildly with his arms and legs, yelling into his microphone, “A hearty welcome to one and all, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Kirk, your space captain this evening!” He turned the music up even louder. A David Bowie song pulsated into the very bones of the floaters on hand. He screamed, “Let’s get it on! Ok. Float!”
The waiting crowd began to rise up off of the floor of the launch area. Everyone started moving their arms and legs in the air, bodies twitching rhythmically to the beat of the pounding bass guitar. The Bloomberg Field extended from the floor all the way up to the domed roof, creating a cylinder of weightlessness. One girl pushed her dance partner and he went spinning head over foot away from her. When he hit the boundary of the launch area, electromagnetic forces bounced him back toward the center. He touched hips with another girl and they both went flying off, gyrating and shaking every part of their body.
“Careful, now! Slam-floating is prohibited tonight!” warned the DJ. This was a “mellow” night at the club, with most of the couples floating tightly embraced, spinning slowly around every possible axis. One dancer floated upside down, spinning, his necktie sticking out perpendicular to his chest, a colorful propeller rotating in time to the music.
Gore and Rice swallowed their third dose of blue ice. Rice was feeling better now, her anxiety and sadness of earlier in the evening melting away with the effects of the drug. She tenderly caressed Gore’s hand.
“That was our first spacefloat,” said the DJ. “Careful with the landing, folks. Go get your blue ice! We’ll start again in three minutes!”
Gore and Rice joined the next spacefloat, hugging one another closely and spinning horizontally ten feet under the dome. Above them, a huge disco ball, fifteen feet in diameter and covered with thousands of tiny mirrors, spun around, throwing spots of moving light all over the “dance” hall.
Rice fondled Gore’s tight, muscular ass, gently kneading both cheeks. Then she broke away from him and slowly floated a few feet above him, inviting him to look up with a smile and a slight nod of the head. She gradually opened her legs just enough so that he could see she was not wearing panties under her miniskirt. “Think about this while you’re on the job tomorrow,” she taunted Gore; she had already informed him that this night’s activities would be limited to no-dancing.