By the time I had poured boiling water over two soup cubes and over coffee powder the steaks were ready for the broiler. I transferred them, letting it cycle at medium rare, and stepped up the gain on the quickthaw so that the spuds would be ready when the steaks were—then back to the freezer for a couple of icekreem cake slices for dessert.
The spuds were ready. I took a quick look at my ration accounts, decided we could afford it, and set out a couple of pats of butterine for them. The broiler was ringing; I removed the steaks, set everything out, and switched on the candles, just as Anne would have done.
“Come and get it!” I yelled and turned back to enter the calorie and point score on each item from the wrappers, then shoved the wrappers in the incinerator. That way you never get your accounts fouled up.
Dad sat down as I finished. Elapsed time from scratch, two minutes and twenty seconds—there’s nothing hard about cooking; I don’t see why women make such a fuss about it. No system, probably.
Dad sniffed the steaks and grinned. “Oh boy! Bill, you’ll bankrupt us.”
“You let me worry,” I said. I’n still plus for this quarter.” Then I frowned. “But I won’t be, next quarter, unless they quit cutting the ration.”
Dad stopped with a piece of steak on its way to his mouth. “Again?”
“Again. Look, George, I don’t get it. This was a good crop year and they started operating the Montana yeast plant besides.”
“You follow all the commissary news, don’t you, Bill?”
“Naturally.”
“Did you notice the results of the Chinese census as well? Try it on your slide rule.”
I knew what he meant—and the steak suddenly tasted like old rubber. What’s the use in being careful if somebody on the other side of the globe is going to spoil your try? “Those darned Chinese ought to quit raising babies and start raising food!”
“Share and share alike, Bill.”
“But—” I shut up. George was right, he usually is, but somehow it didn’t seem fair. “Did you hear about the Mayflower?” I asked to change the subject.
“What about the Mayflower?” Dad’s voice was suddenly cautious, which surprised me. Since Anne died —Anne was my mother—George and I have been about as close as two people can be.
“Why, she was commissioned, that’s all. They’ve started picking emigrants.”
“So?” There was that cautious tone again. “What did you do today?”
“Nothing much. We hiked about five miles north of camp and Mr. Kinski put some of the kids through tests. I saw a mountain lion.”
“Really? I thought they were all gone.”
“Well, I thought I saw one.”
“Then you probably did. What else?”
I hesitated, then told him about this twerp Jones. “He’s not even a member of our troop. How does he get that way, interfering with my piloting?”
“You did right, Bill. Sounds as if this twerp Jones, as you call him, was too young to be trusted with a pilot’s license.”
“Matter of fact, he’s a year older than I am.”
“In my day you had to be sixteen before you could even go up for your license.”
“Times change, George.”
“So they do. So they do.”
Dad suddenly looked sad and I knew he was thinking about Anne. I hastily said, “Old enough or not, how does an insect like Jones get by the temperament-stability test?”
“Psycho tests aren’t perfect, Bill. Neither are people.” Dad sat back and lit his pipe. “Want me to clean up tonight?”
“No, thanks.” He always asked; I always turned him down. Dad is absent-minded; he lets ration points get into the incinerator. When I salvage, I really salvage. “Feel like a game of cribbage?”
“I’ll beat the pants off you.”
“You and who else?” I salvaged the garbage, burned the dishes, followed him into the living room. He was getting out the board and cards.
His mind wasn’t really on the game. I was around the corner and ready to peg out before he was really under way. Finally he put down his cards and looked square at me. “Son—”
“Huh? I mean, ‘Yes, George?'”