“Don’t growl at me!” said Sheila.
Evgeny started hugging her.
“I’m frozen,” she said plaintively.
“That’s because you’re hungry,” Evgeny declared. “I’m a little frozen too, and I don’t at all feel like going to a restaurant. Is it really impossible to organize life so as to have supper at home?”
“Anything is possible,” said Sheila. “But what’s the point of it? Who eats at home?”
“I eat at home.”
“Evgeny, dear,” said Sheila, “would you like for us to move to the city? There’s the delivery line there, and you could eat at home all you wanted.”
“I don’t want to live in the city,” Evgeny said stubbornly. “I want to live out in the open air.”
Sheila looked at him thoughtfully for some time. “Would you like me to drop by the restaurant right now and bring supper home? It will only take a couple of minutes… Or maybe we could go together? Sit for a while and chat a bit with the guys?”
“I want just the two of us,” said Evgeny. Nonetheless he fetched his jacket and started putting it on. “You know, Sheila, I have an idea,” he said suddenly, and stuck his hand into his pocket. “Just listen to this.”
“What?” asked Sheila.
“An advertisement. Somehow it ended up in my pocket. Listen. ‘The Krasnoyarsk Appliance Factory…’ Well, we can skip that. Here. ‘The Universal Kitchen Machine, Model UKM-207, the Krasnoyarsk, is simple to operate and features a cybernetic brain rated for sixteen interchangeable programs. The UKM-207 includes a device for the trimming, peeling, and washing of raw or semiprepared foods, and an automatic dishwasher. The UKM-207 can prepare simultaneously two different three-course dinners, including first courses of various borschts, bouillons, ok-roshki, and other soups.”
“Evgeny!” Sheila laughed. “That’s a machine for restaurants and dining halls.”
“So?”
Sheila tried to explain. “Imagine a new housing development. Or a temporary settlement, a camp. The delivery line is far away. And there’s no link with Home Delivery—supply for the whole place is centralized. So they need a UKM.”
Evgeny was very disappointed. “So they wouldn’t give us one like that?” he asked, downcast.
“Well, they would, of course, but… but, you see, that’s pure sybaritism.”
“Sheila, sweetling! Sheila, dearest! May I order a machine like that? It’s not going to hurt anybody! And then we wouldn’t be forced to go anywhere in the evenings.”
“Have it your way,” Sheila said briefly. “But we’re still having supper in the restaurant today.”
They left—Evgeny following her docilely.
Early in the morning, Evgeny Slavin was awakened by the snorting of a heavy-duty helicopter. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. He was just in time to see a dark blue helicopter fusilage with HOME DELIVERY printed on it in large white letters. The helicopter passed over the garden and disappeared behind the treetops, which were sparkling with dew and full of the chatter of birds. A large yellow box stood on the garden path by the porch. An emerald-green gardener robot stomped uncertainly around the box on its L-shaped legs.
“I’ll get you, waste-disposer!” yelled Evgeny, and he started climbing through the window. “Sheila! Sheila dear! It’s come!”
The gardener robot dashed off into the bushes. Evgeny ran up to the box and walked all the way around it without touching it.
“It’s here!” he said, deeply moved. “Great lads, Home Delivery. Krasnoyarsk,” he read off the side of the box. “It’s here.”
Sheila came out onto the porch, wrapping her bathrobe round her. “What a wonderful morning!” she said, yawning sweetly. “What are you making so much noise for? You’ll wake up Yurii.”
Evgeny looked toward the garden, where, behind the trees, he could see the white walls of Yurii’s cottage. Something over there suddenly gave a crash, and they heard indistinct exclamations. “He’s awake already,” said Evgeny. “Give me a hand, Sheila, eh?”
Sheila came down from the porch. “What’s that?” she asked. Near the box lay a large paper bag with a colorful label with pictures of various foods.
“That?” Evgeny stared absently at the colorful label. “That must be the raw ingredients and the semiprepared foods.”
Sheila said with a sigh, “Well, okay. Let’s pick up your toy.”
The box was light, and they dragged it inside without difficulty. Only at this point did Evgeny realize that the cottage did not have a kitchen. What do I do now? he thought.
“Well, what are we going to do with it?” asked Sheila.
By dint of superhuman mental effort Evgeny instantly pounced upon the necessary solution. “Into the bathroom with it,” he said lightly. “Where else?”
They put the box in the bathroom, and Evgeny ran back for the bag. When he returned, Sheila was doing her exercises. Evgeny started singing off key, “Monday roast beef, Tuesday string beans…” and tore the side off the box. The Krasnoyarsk, Model UKM-207, looked very inspiring. Much more inspiring than Evgeny had expected.
“Well?” asked Sheila,
“Now we’ll get down to it,” Evgeny said briskly. “I’ll fix you a meal right off.”
“I’d advise you to call for an instructor.”
“Nonsense. I’ll figure this machine out myself. After all, it said ‘simple to operate.’”
The machine, enclosed in a smooth plastic housing, sparkled proudly amid piles of crumpled paper.
“It’s all very simple,” declared Evgeny. “Here are four buttons. It’s perfectly clear that they correspond to the soup course, the main course, the dessert course, and…”
“… the after-dessert course,” Sheila put in helpfully.
“Exactly, the after-dessert course,” Evgeny affirmed. “Tea, for instance. Or cocoa.”
He squatted down and opened a lid that said “Control System.”
“It’s spaghetti inside,” he muttered, “spaghetti. God help us if it ever breaks down.” He stood up. “Now I know what the fourth button is for—slicing bread.”
“An interesting conclusion,” Sheila said thoughtfully. “Did it occur to you that the four buttons might correspond to the four elements of Empedocles? Earth, air, fire, and water.”
Evgeny smiled reluctantly.
“Or the four arithmetic operations,” Sheila added.
“All right,” Evgeny said, and started unloading the bag. “Talk is talk, but I want goulash. You still don’t know how I cook goulash, Sheila. Here’s the meat, here’s the potatoes… right… parsley… onion… I want goulash! Followed by cybernetic dishwashing! So the grease on the dishes turns into air and sunlight!”
Sheila went into the living room and brought back a chair. Evgeny, holding a piece of meat in one hand and four large potatoes in the other, was standing indecisively in front of the machine. Sheila put the chair beside the washbasin, and sat down comfortably.
Addressing no one in particular, Evgeny said, “I would be much obliged if somebody would tell me where the raw food goes in.”
Sheila said, “I saw a cyberkitchen two years ago. It wasn’t at all like this one, but I remember it had a sort of opening for the raw food on the right.”
“I thought so!” Evgeny shouted happily. “There are two openings here. So the one on the right is for raw food, and the one on the left is for cooked dinners.”
“Evgeny, dear,” said Sheila, “you know, we should really go to a restaurant.”
He did not answer. He put the meat and potatoes into the opening on the right, and set off, cord in hand, for the wall socket. “Turn it on,” he said from a distance.
“How?” said Sheila.