They turned on the three-dee in the corner and arranged themselves in a semicircle on the floor to see the first episode of “The Starcrossed.”

But first, of course, they saw three dozen commercials: for bathroom bowl cleaners, bras, headache remedies, perfumes, rectal thermometers, hair dyes, and a foolproof electronic way to cheat on your school exams. Plus new cars, used cars, foreign cars, an airline commercial that explained the new antihijacking system (every passenger gets his very own Smith & Wesson .38 revolver!), and an oil company ad dripping with sincerity about the absolute need to move the revered site of Disneyland so that “we can get more oil to serve you better.”

The science fiction fans laughed and jeered at all the commercials, especially the last one. They bicycled, whenever and wherever the air was safe enough to breathe.

Then the corner of the room where the three-dee projector cast its images went absolutely black. The fans went silent with anticipation. Then a thread of music began, too faint to really pick out the tune. A speck of light appeared in the middle of the pool of blackness. Then another. Two stars, moving toward each other. The music swelled.

“Hey, that tune is ‘When You Wish Upon a Star!’”

“Sssshhh.” Nineteen hisses.

The two stars turned out to be starships and bold letters spelled out “The Starcrossed” over them. The fans cheered and applauded.

Two minutes later, after another dozen commercials, they were gaping.

“Look at how solid they are!”

“It’s like they’re really here in the room. No scintillations at all.”

“It’s a damned-near perfect projection.”

“I wish we had a life-sized set.”

“You can reach out and touch them!”

“I wouldn’t mind touching her!”

“Or him. He’s got muscles. Not like the guys around here.”

“And she’s got...”

Twelve hisses, all from female throats, drowned him out. Fifteen minutes later, they were still gaping, but now their comments were:

“This is pretty slow for an opening show.”

“It’s pretty slow, period.”

“That hockey player acts better in the Garden when they call a foul on him.”

“Shuddup. I want to watch Juliet breathe.”

Halfway into the second act they were saying:

“Who wrote this crud?”

“It’s awful.”

“They must be dubbing Romeo’s speeches. His mouth doesn’t sync with the words.”

“Who cares? The words are dumb.”

They laughed. They groaned. They threw marshmallows at the solid-looking images and watched the little white missiles sail right through the performers. When the show finally ended:

“What a wagonload of crap!”

“Well, at least the girl was good-looking.”

“Good-looking? She’s sensational!”

“But the story. Ugh!”

“What story?”

“There was a story?”

“Maybe it’s supposed to be a children’s show.”

“Or a spoof.”

“It wasn’t funny enough to be a spoof.”

“Or intelligent enough to be a children’s show. Giant amoebas in space!”

“It’ll set science fiction back ten years, at least.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the President Emeritus said, clutching his walking stick. “I thought it was pretty funny in places.”

“In the wrong places.”

“One thing, though. That new projection system is terrific. I’m going to scrounge up enough money to buy a life-sized three-dee. They’ve finally worked all the bugs out of it.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Let’s get a life-sized set for the clubroom.”

“Do we have enough money in the treasury?”

“We do,” said the treasurer, “if we cancel the rocket launch in March.”

“Cancel it,” the president said. “Let’s see if the show gets any better. We can always scratch up more money for a rocket launch.”

In Pete’s Tavern in downtown Manhattan, the three-dee set was life-sized. The regulars sat on their stools with their elbows on the bar and watched “The Starcrossed” actors galumph across the corner where the jukebox used to be.

After the first few minutes, most of them turned back to the bar and resumed their drinking.

“That’s Francois Dulaq, the hockey star?”