Porteous was delighted. He asked a multitude of questions, most of them pointless, some naive, and Melinda dug into her infinitesimal fund of knowledge and gave. The little man scribbled furiously, clucking like a gravid hen.
"You mean," he asked in amazement, "that you live in these primitive huts of your own volition?"
"It's a G.I. housing project," Melinda said, ashamed.
"Astonishing." He wrote: Feudal anachronisms and atomic power, side by side. Class Fours periodically "rough it" in back-to-nature movements.
Harry Junior chose that moment to begin screaming for his lunch. Porteous sat, trembling. "Is that a Security Alarm?"
"My son," said Melinda despondently, and went into the nursery.
Porteous followed, and watched the ululating child with some trepidation. "Newborn?"
"Eighteen months," said Melinda stiffly, changing diapers. "He's cutting teeth."
Porteous shuddered. "What a pity. Obviously atavistic. Wouldn't the creche accept him? You shouldn't have to keep him here."