There was food there, but he didn't know how to get at it. He had never before needed to do more than dial up portions for a meal, but he must have food in containers, food that would not spoil while he conserved his life on its dwindling supply.
He ripped open a locked panel on the wall. There was food. But the large containers were locked in place. He clawed at the metal, but only tore his flesh and dripped blood on the immaculate counter top.
The club he had used on the Serve-All! He recovered the plastic bludgeon and went to work.
Five minutes later he had dislodged two of the large tins. One said beans; the other said meat.
Beans dripped a trail of juice across the floor as he ran to the door.
He threw it open.
A repair robot scuttled in and knocked him sprawling on the living room floor.
Perry stared wildly at the mechanical beast. It hummed anxiously, retrieving bits of wreckage like a mother bird repairing a broken egg.
Mansfield belly-crawled stealthily back toward the door. He might make it yet. The robot probably wasn't geared for cop duty.
But the door was blocked.