Before I could get back to work, there was a call from Stats.
"Got a little problem down here, Mr. Ro," said the Tech. "Schenectady is sending us premium billing on an over-order of plastic."
"How much is the premium?"
"Quite a little, Boss—about 10 hundred million or thereabouts. I checked with them and the reason for the extra strong premium is because they had to rebuild the factory—let's see which one that was—oh, yes, cold-molding dishes division of the Cooking Receptacle plant. What do you want me to do—enter a protest saying we aren't responsible and get it over to Fed Court where they can pro-rate it over the other cities?"
"Nope, I guess you'd just better pay it."
The chips were falling into place now and I didn't like what they were building for me.
As soon as I switched off, I put in a call to my head Tech at the Civic Machine and asked for a rundown on the food ordered for supper for the past six or eight nights. It took a while, but when I got it back, it was enough to make my hair curl and uncurl in three-quarter time.
First thing I did was call my wife and ask her what we were having for dinner that night.
"We're having your favorite—steak and kidney pie, dear," she said in that innocent-little-girl voice that means there's trouble ahead.
"No more of those gelatin dishes, sweet?"