He ripped open a locked panel on the wall. There was food. But the large containers were locked in place. He clawed at the metal, but only tore his flesh and dripped blood on the immaculate counter top. The club he had used on the Serve-All! He recovered the plastic bludgeon and went to work. Five minutes later he had dislodged two of the large tins. One said _beans_; the other said _meat_. _Beans_ dripped a trail of juice across the floor as he ran to the door. He threw it open. A repair robot scuttled in and knocked him sprawling on the living room floor. Perry stared wildly at the mechanical beast. It hummed anxiously, retrieving bits of wreckage like a mother bird repairing a broken egg. Mansfield belly-crawled stealthily back toward the door. He might make it yet. The robot probably wasn't geared for cop duty. But the door was blocked. Perry looked up past the knees and the belted paunch to the face. It was Master Marlboro. Perry rose wearily to his feet and dropped the tins of food to the floor. "All right," he said, "I give up." "Really, Mr. Mansfield," Marlboro's lips curled with delicate disgust. "Isn't this a childish way to treat a beautiful machine?" "What will you do with me?" The MS didn't answer. He pulled a contract pad out of his pocket and started writing. "You mean you're going to sell me another one?" Marlboro shoved the pad in his hand. "I'm quite sure you'll sign this one," he said firmly. Perry read the sales contract: _For standard consideration, this entitles one Perry Mansfield to all required services and exclusive use of private quarters in Airy Hills Sanatarium._ Perry signed.