Ashton awoke with a headache from too much treacly the night before. He didn't have time for a shower, even with the atomizer, so he stumbled into his clothes and caught the tube, which whooshed him to street level. Running, one shoelace trailing and snaking in the wind, he made the last express and slumped down next to a diminutive old lady in a magenta jumpsuit who was sipping her morning treacly from a plastic tube with a nipple.
Baby bottles were certainly becoming the thing with senior citizens, Ashton realized.
Although he was still a young man, he suddenly saw himself as toothless and wizened, curled fetally and sucking away. The image was so unpleasant he pushed it forcefully from his mind. Instead he thought about Miss McDowell of Data Control. This evening he would take her to the Simulated Nairobi Ballet, and since it was Friday, if all went well, they would spend the night together and couple.
Ashton reached the office with a few minutes to spare so he let the tube whoosh him to the cafeteria on the forty-seventh floor. He sat at the end of a long table with Sanderson and Bordski, two of his fellow workers. Their trays were loaded with the remains of breakfast #17: grapefruit, ham and cheese omelet, hash browns, toast with treacly jam and coffee.
"Hi-ho, Ashton," Sanderson called out from across the narrow table, "here it is the last day of the week and you look like blue Monday." Bordski continued to shovel potatoes into his mouth.
"I guess I overdid it last night. Too much treacly."
"That's ridiculous," Sanderson laughed, running one palm over his perfectly empty scalp. "You can't have too much treacly. Look at Bordski, here." He gestured with his thumb. "Why, he practically lives on the stuff!" Bordski grinned. His teeth were covered with jam.
Sanderson took the communal bottle from the table. He squirted some treacly into Bordski's coffee and his own, then offered it to Ashton.
"No thanks, I think I'll wait until lunch," Ashton said, raising one palm to ward off the container.
Sanderson thumped the bottle down and gave him a nasty stare. "You know something, Ashton. You're becoming a real spoiler. First you quit smoking. Now you're turning down treacly. Next thing we know, you won't even be coupling anymore!" His voice mellowed. "Remember, there's no room here for pessimists and grumblers. We all want to have a good time."
Bordski, who had just lit a cigarette, leaned across the table and blew smoke in Ashton's face. As Ashton turned away, covering his mouth and coughing, Sanderson shot some treacly into his coffee.
Since treacly was odorless, colorless, tasteless and dissolved instantly in almost anything, Ashton didn't notice the trick which had been played on him until nearly an hour later, when he was at his desk puzzling over a printout. Then, basking in the first waves of joy, how could he be upset about such a trifle.
)
