You have strayed into an area of the Milky Way Gallery where the paintings currently come to an end. Footsteps echo through this great barn of a place, black-marbled floors and walls throwing back echoes. Motes of dust are stirred by your passing feet and incandesce, caught spinning in rods of laser light hissing from a high tall window. Echoing from past history too, perhaps, of masquerades and balls, of men strutting in uniform and ladies imperial.