There was trouble in the morning mail. Under the letterhead of the National Ration Board, it said:
“We regret to advise you that the following items returned by you in connection with your August quotas as used and no longer serviceable have been inspected and found insufficiently worn.” The list followed—a long one, Morey saw to his sick disappointment. “Credit is hereby disallowed for these and you are therefore given an additional consuming quota for the current month in the amount of 435 points, at least 350 points of which must be in the textile and home-furnishing categories.”
Morey dashed the letter to the floor. The valet picked it up emo-tionlessly, creased it and set it on his desk.
It wasn’t fair! All right, maybe the bathing trunks and beach umbrellas hadn’t been really used very much—though how the devil, he asked himself bitterly, did you go about using up swimming gear when you didn’t have time for such leisurely pursuits as swimming? But certainly the hiking slacks were used! He’d worn them for three whole days and part of a fourth; what did they expect him to do, go around in rags?
Morey looked belligerently at the coffee and toast that the valet-robot had brought in with the mail, and then steeled his resolve. Unfair or not, he had to play the game according to the rules. It was for Cherry, more than for himself, and the way to begin a new way of life was to begin it.
Morey was going to consume for two.
He told the valet-robot, “Take that stuff back. I want cream and sugar with the coffee— lots of cream and sugar. And besides the toast, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, orange juice—no, make it half a grapefruit. And orange juice, come to think of it.”
“Right away, sir,” said the valet. “You won’t be having breakfast at nine then, will you, sir?”
“I certainly will,” said Morey virtuously. “Double portions!” As the robot was closing the door, he called after it, “Butter and marmalade with the toast!”
He went to the bath; he had a full schedule and no time to waste. In the shower, he carefully sprayed himself with lather three times. When he had rinsed the soap off, he went through the whole assortment of taps in order: three lotions, plain talcum, scented talcum and thirty seconds of ultra-violet. Then he lathered and rinsed again, and dried himself with a towel instead of using the hot-air drying jet. Most of the miscellaneous scents went down the drain with the rinse water, but if the Ration Board accused him of waste, he could claim he was experimenting. The effect, as a matter of fact, wasn’t bad at all.