Some patrons, however, are using the pools for their proper, intended purpose. Swimming, appropriately undressed, rather than being tossed in, pushed in, falling in with all their clothes on during drunken carousing.

One figure was cutting strong, decisive laps up and down one of the pools, but the more drunk people with clothes on he has to dodge, the slower he gets. Finally, Jim gives up, surfacing from the water seemingly all at once, hands grasping the sides, strong arms hauling himself up with a bit of a splash as he breaks the surface.

He climbs out and strides to a nearby deck chair, completely unselfconscious about the fact that he's dripping wet and clad in a small swimsuit (generations way before his own would have referred to such a garment as a "Speedo") that's neon purple and bears the Babylon's logo. He's got the flushed skin, slightly heaving chest, and pleased smile that one gets when one is enjoying a good post-workout endorphin rush; the smile doesn't fade as he plucks a towel off a pile folded neatly on his chair, attacking his hair first.