"Well, let's see," he said. "We've got 3.5 million round gelatin molds with a hole in the center. We've got 5.6 million square gelatin molds--no center hole. And 7.3 million figure-eight gelatin molds and I understand there's a hell of a lot of deep-dish gelatin molds coming up tomorrow from Supply at Schenectady." "Why in hell have we got all those molds?" "Don't know," he said. "Civic Machine ordered them, so I suppose we need them. Where do you want the storing done? Thought we might run up one of those new Kiosk warehouses out east if you have no objection." "Put it anywhere you want," I said, switching off. Before I could get back to work, there was a call from Stats. "Got a little problem down here, Mr. Ro," said the Tech. "Schenectady is sending us premium billing on an over-order of plastic." "How much is the premium?" "Quite a little, Boss--about 10 hundred million or thereabouts. I checked with them and the reason for the extra strong premium is because they had to rebuild the factory--let's see which one that was--oh, yes, cold-molding dishes division of the Cooking Receptacle plant. What do you want me to do--enter a protest saying we aren't responsible and get it over to Fed Court where they can pro-rate it over the other cities?" "Nope, I guess you'd just better pay it." The chips were falling into place now and I didn't like what they were building for me. As soon as I switched off, I put in a call to my head Tech at the Civic Machine and asked for a rundown on the food ordered for supper for the past six or eight nights. It took a while, but when I got it back, it was enough to make my hair curl and uncurl in three-quarter time. First thing I did was call my wife and ask her what we were having for dinner that night. "We're having your favorite--steak and kidney pie, dear," she said in that innocent-little-girl voice that means there's trouble ahead. "No more of those gelatin dishes, sweet?" "No more of that awful gelatin, darling. I'm so tired of it. But I did order a pair of nice shears today--you know, sweetheart, scissors?" "Yes, dear. That's nice," I said, trying to smooth down the hair on the back of my neck, which was standing straight up. "The Civic Machine didn't have any scissors, darling, so I told it go ahead and get me a pair regardless of the wait. That was all right, wasn't it, dear?" "Fine, dear, fine." "I can't imagine why the Civic Machine should be out of just plain old six-inch scissors, can you?" "Just can't imagine, darling. Good-by." "Good-by, sweetie." * * * * * My hand was shaking when I called the Tech at the Civic Machine and asked him to check up on the orders for scissors. It took a minute or two, and when he came back, his face was puzzled.