A stainless-steel capsule popped into the transparent wall dock. Of course the party quota system was taken for granted, he mused, removing the capsule, but it was an obligation you didn't welsh on. The muscle boys in the party organization saw to that. But still, fifty thousand....
Across the table John, his sixteen-year-old adopted son, stirred. "I guess you aren't as hungry as I am, Phil."
"What? Oh, sorry." John—down here for breakfast? What was the matter? The kid sick or something? Every morning he took his meal to his room to eat in solitude. Funny kid.
Philon removed the food capsule from the wall dock, stopping the soft gushing of air in the suction tube. Setting it on the table he snapped it open and removed the individual thermocels of food.
Philon poured coffee from the thermos and absently stirred in cream and sugar. Fifty thousand....
John was well into his breakfast already. "Phil, I was down to visit those people on the corner—you know, the house that appeared there over-night."
"Um."
"Their name is MacDonald," John said. "And they have a son, Jimmie, just my age, and a younger girl, Jean. Gosh, you ought to see the inside of their house, Phil. Old-fashioned! At the windows they got something called venetian blinds instead of our variable mirror thermopanes. And you know what? They don't even have an FP connection. They prepare all their meals in the house!"
John's excitement finally aroused Philon's attention. "No Food Preparation service? But that's unheard of!"
"They're sure swell people though."