But the enormity of Mark’s debit with Central when the old lady should turn in his slip, began to worry him. He wondered if he could get it back from her. He wasn’t happy with the world, and things were all wrong, and all that, but still⁠—well, he did have to live in it. Thirty-five thousand points. He began to worry. He wished he knew what the penalty would be. He wondered if the old lady knew. What were these points all about anyway? “You must know,” he said, “how the world got into this mess.”

She chuckled, “For thirty-five thousand points, I guess you’ve got a right to the story.” She turned into the archway of a standard type B apartment house.

He wondered what she would do with all those points. What did anybody do with them? Everybody had about the same living quarters. Food was furnished by automatic vendors at the Hydroponic Farms. Clothes were provided, ready-made; all you had to do was put your credit card in a machine, punch the buttons for your measurements, and a suit would drop down the chute.

Mark got out of the chair and helped her inside with it. He took off his hat and started uncertainly to leave, but she put her hand on his arm, “No, no. Have supper with me. I’ll tell you all about everything. Glad to. There aren’t many who want to know about things any more.”

Her apartment was neat and clean. It was hard for Mark to connect it with an old woman shrieking points at him. “My name’s Pearl. Point-Plus-Pearlie, they call me. But my real name’s Penelope. You can call me Penelope.”

“Thank you,” Mark said gravely, and sat down. Penelope bustled into an apron and began pulling packages from the freezer. “We’ll have a feed, you and I⁠—a real feed.” She chuckled pleasantly. “After all, you’re paying for it.”

Mark squirmed uncomfortably.