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bread. Little Worker was disconcerted. She had had her heart set on toast and jelly. What could have happened to the supply of bread? Yesterday there had been plenty.
    “What has happened to the bread?” asked Little Worker.
    “Last night Mister Michael’s wife fed it all to the Bull andromorph. He ate three loaves. There were only three loaves. Thus there are no more.”
    Mister Michael’s wife had fed all of Little Worker’s toast to her Bull. It was the fault of Mister Michael’s wife that there was no toast this morning for Little Worker.
    “The bakery delivery occurs at ten o’clock this morning,” offered the food-center helpfully.
    “I will be gone with Mister Michael by then. I will not be home at ten o’clock. I must eat something different.” Little Worker paused to reflect. “I will have hot cereal with a spoon of jelly on it.”
    “There is no jelly. The Bull ate that also. With peanut butter.”
    Little Worker tensed her fingers reflexively. Her morning, disturbed already by the new odor coming from Mister Michael’s bedroom, was not getting better. The change in routine upset her. It felt like a morning when chefs came. But no chefs were here.
    “I will have an egg then,” said Little Worker.
    “There are eggs,” said the food-center.
    “There is no jelly for an egg?” hopefully asked Little Worker one last time.
    “There is no jelly even for an egg.”
    “Then I will have an egg alone.”
    Little Worker sat at a table with metal legs and white tile top. When her egg came she ate it, licking the plate to get all the yolk. It would serve to make her fur glossy. But it did not taste as good as jelly.
    When she was done, Little Worker ordered the food-center to prepare and serve breakfast for Mister Michael and his wife in the south dining room. Then she walked through halls and storage rooms until she arrived at the south dining room.
    Mister Michael was already there, seated at one end of a long polished table, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee.
    “Good morning, Mister Michael,” said Little Worker.
    “Morning,” said Mister Michael somewhat gruffly.
    Little Worker quivered inside. Mister Michael did not seem himself this morning. He worked too hard, thought Little Worker. He had too much on his mind. The state demanded too much of him. He should be better to himself.
    Little Worker coiled up at Mister Michael’s feet beside the table, where she could watch everything that happened.
    Breakfast was served. Mister Michael’s wife did not arrive on time. Mister Michael began to eat anyway. Only when the fine Canadian ham and scrambled eggs and poached fish were cold did she come through the door.
    Mister Michael’s wife was dressed for shopping. She wore an ivory jacket short in front but with long tails that hung to her knees in back, over a pale blue silk blouse and tulip-hemmed ivory skirt. She wore blue metallic stockings and creamy high heels. She smelled heavily of expensive perfume, which failed to conceal entirely from Little Worker’s keen nose the aromas of her recent mating.
    Sitting gingerly, as if sore, Mister Michael’s wife picked idly at the food set before her. Neither she nor Mister Michael spoke for some time. Finally, though, setting down his paper, which rustled loudly to Little Worker’s ears, Mister Michael said, “There are some important people coming up today from Washington. They’ll want to meet you.”
    “How very tedious. And what time would that be?”
    Mister Michael seemed to be restraining his anger. “Around two.”
    “I’ll try to be there.”
    Mister Michael’s anger escaped. “Try! You’d damn well better be there. As my wife, you have certain official responsibilities, just as I do.”
    “No one elected me to be the prime minister’s wife.”
    “You elected yourself when you married me. You can’t pretend you didn’t. You knew quite well that I might end up as prime minister someday. I told you so from the outset. God, what do