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?" Iasked to change the subject.