Chester Pelton retracted his paunch as far as the breakfast seat would
permit; the table, its advent preceded by a collection of
mouth-watering aromas, slid noiselessly out of the pantry and clicked
into place in front of him.
"Everything all right, Miss Claire?" a voice floated out after it from
beyond. "Anything else you want?"
"Everything's just fine, Mrs. Harris," Claire replied. "I suppose Mr.
Pelton'll want seconds, and Ray'll probably want thirds and fourths of
everything." She waved a hand over the photocell that closed the
pantry door, and slid into place across from her brother, who already
had a glass of fruit juice in one hand and was lifting platter covers
with the other.
"Real eggs!" the boy was announcing. "Bacon. Wheat-bread toast." He
looked again. "Hey, Sis, is this real cow-made butter?"
"Yes. Now go ahead and eat."
As though Ray needed encouragement, Chester Pelton thought, watching
his son use a spoon--the biggest one available--to dump gobs of honey
on his toast. While he was helping himself to bacon and eggs, he could
hear Ray's full-mouthed exclamation: "This is real bee-comb honey,
too!" That pleased him. The boy was a true Pelton; only needed one
bite to distinguish between real and synthetic food.
"Bet this breakfast didn't cost a dollar under five C," Ray continued,
a little more audibly, between bites.
[Illustration:]
That was another Pelton trait; even at fifteen, the boy was learning
the value of money. Claire seemed to disapprove, however.
"Oh, Ray; try not to always think of what things cost," she reproved.
"If I had all she spends on natural food, I could have a this-season's
model 'copter-bike, like Jimmy Hartnett," Ray continued.
Pelton frowned. "I don't want you running around with that boy, Ray,"
he said, his mouth full of bacon and eggs. Under his daughter's look
of disapproval, he swallowed hastily, then continued: "He's not the
sort of company I want my son keeping."
"But, Senator," Ray protested. "He lives next door to us. Why, we can
see Hartnett's aerial from the top of our landing stage!"
"That doesn't matter," he said, in a tone meant to indicate that the
subject was not to be debated. "He's a Literate!"
"More eggs, Senator?" Claire asked, extending the platter and
gesturing with the serving knife.
He chuckled inwardly. Claire always knew what to do when his temper
started climbing to critical mass. He allowed her to load his plate
again.
"And speaking of our landing stage, have you been up there, this
morning, Ray?" he asked.
They both looked at him inquiringly.
"Delivered last evening, while you two were out," he explained. "New
winter model Rolls-Cadipac." He felt a glow of paternal pleasure as
Claire gave a yelp of delight and aimed a glancing kiss at the top of
his bald head. Ray dropped his fork, slid from his seat, and bolted
for the lift, even bacon, eggs, and real bee-comb honey forgotten.
With elaborate absent-mindedness, Chester Pelton reached for the
switch to turn on the video screen over the pantry door.
"Oh-oh! Oh-oh!" Claire's slender hand went out to stop his own. "Not
till coffee and cigarettes, Senator."
"It's almost oh-eight-fifteen; I want the newscast."
"Can't you just relax for a while? Honestly, Senator, you're killing
yourself."
"Oh, rubbish! I've been working a little hard, but--"
"You've been working too hard. And today, with the sale at the store,
and the last day of the campaign--"
"Why the devil did that idiot of a Latterman have the sale advertised
for today, anyhow?" he fumed. "Doesn't he know I'm running for the
Senate?"
"I doubt it," Claire said. "He may have heard of it, the way you've
heard about an election in Pakistan or Abyssinia, or he just may not
know there is such a thing as politics. I think he does know there's a
world outside the store, but he doesn't care much what goes on in it."
She pushed her plate aside, poured a cup of coffee, and levered a
cigarette from the Readilit, puffing at it with the relish of the
morning's first smoke. "All he knows is that we're holding our sale
three days ahead of Macy & Gimbel's."
"Russ is a good businessman," Pelton said seriously. "I wish you'd
take a little more interest in him, Claire."
"If you mean what I think you do, no thanks," Claire replied. "I
suppose I'll get married, some day--most girls do--but it'll be to
somebody who can hang his business up at the office before he comes
home. Russ Latterman is so married to the store that if he married me
too, it'd be bigamy. Ready for your coffee?" Without waiting for an
answer, she filled his cup and ejected a lighted cigarette from the
box for him, then snapped on the video screen.
It lit at once, and a nondescriptly handsome young man was grinning
toothily out of it. He wore a white smock, halfway to his knees, and,
over it, an old-fashioned Sam Browne belt which supported a bulky
leather-covered tablet and a large stylus. On the strap which crossed
his breast five or six little metal badges twinkled.
"... Why no other beer can compare with delicious, tangy, Cardon's
Black Bottle. Won't you try it?" he pleaded. "Then you will see for
yourself why millions of happy drinkers always Call For Cardon's. And
now, that other favorite of millions, Literate First Class Elliot C.
Mongery."