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There's some reaction these days that
holds scientists responsible for war. Take it one step further:
What happens if "book-learnin'" is held responsible ...?
Illustrated by van Dongen
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
"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.