"Oh, thanks, Mrs. Morris," said Anna.
"Certainly," said Mink's mother and withdrew, laughing, to dust the hall with an electro-duster-magnet.
The voices wavered on the shimmery air. "Beam," said Anna. Fading.
"Four-nine-seven-A-and-B-and-X," said Mink, far away, seriously. "And a fork and a string and a—hex-hex-agony ... hexagonal!"
At lunch, Mink gulped milk at one toss and was at the door. Her mother slapped the table.
"You sit right back down," commanded Mrs. Morris. "Hot soup in a minute." She poked a red button on the kitchen butler and ten seconds later something landed with a bump in the rubber receiver. Mrs. Morris opened it, took out a can with a pair of aluminum holders, unsealed it with a flick and poured hot soup into a bowl.
During all this, Mink fidgeted. "Hurry, Mom! This is a matter of life and death! Aw—!"
"I was the same way at your age. Always life and death. I know."
Mink banged away at the soup.