He wondered what she would do with all those points. What did anybody do with them? Everybody had about the same living quarters. Food was furnished by automatic vendors at the Hydroponic Farms. Clothes were provided, ready-made; all you had to do was put your credit card in a machine, punch the buttons for your measurements, and a suit would drop down the chute.
Mark got out of the chair and helped her inside with it. He took off his hat and started uncertainly to leave, but she put her hand on his arm, "No, no. Have supper with me. I'll tell you all about everything. Glad to. There aren't many who want to know about things any more."
Her apartment was neat and clean. It was hard for Mark to connect it with an old woman shrieking points at him. "My name's Pearl. Point-Plus-Pearlie, they call me. But my real name's Penelope. You can call me Penelope."
"Thank you," Mark said gravely, and sat down. Penelope bustled into an apron and began pulling packages from the freezer. "We'll have a feed, you and I—a real feed." She chuckled pleasantly. "After all, you're paying for it."
Mark squirmed uncomfortably.
"I'll tell you how all this started," Penelope said, popping open a can of high-content protein. "Back before you were born there were insurance companies. At first they were started to insure your life, and—"
"Your life!" Mark frowned. "How—"
"Never mind. Also, they insured you against loss by fire. Then it was loss by collision of vehicles—you've never seen an auto, of course—and so on. Finally they got to insuring you against hurting yourself when you slipped on a cake of soap in the bathtub, and then they insured against a suit for damages by someone who might stub his toe and fall down and break a leg on your sidewalk. Follow me?"
"I think so," said Mark doubtfully.