“Luncheon is served, sir,” said the Carème 6000 as a mechanical arm telescoped out of the wall panel and deftly set the tray down on the table. For a moment, Marjorie thought she detected a vague note of petulance in the kitchen’s synthesized voice.

Boone Newcomb picked up the sandwich, examined it closely, then took a bite. He chewed, swallowed, and a sunny smile slowly spread itself across his face. “Just like Mama used to make,” he announced. “Kitchen, you done good.” Several of the reporters applauded. One even cheered.

“There you have it,” Marjorie said, stepping back into the spotlight with the finesse of a born game show host. “In spite of the fact that Mr. Newcomb’s lunch order was culturally unique and not part of the Carème 6000’s preprogrammed library of cookbooks, this fantastic machine produced the requested item quickly, accurately and safely. Now perhaps there are some people-” She stared meaningly at Emily. “-who consider such momentary hesitation on the part of the Carème 6000 to be unacceptable, even if it was by no stretch of the imagination dangerous. No doubt we’d all be happier in a world where our every whim was fulfilled the very instant we articulated it. But I doubt any right-minded person would call the Carème 6000’s behavior in this instance insubordination, let alone hate-”

“May I offer you a beverage to accompany your lunch, sir?” The kitchen’s voice cut in over Marjorie’s.

“Well, thank you,” Boone replied affably. “I wouldn’t say no to a nice frosty glass of-”

“-wine? I would recommend an impudent little white, a sauvignon blanc from Chateau Kiwi. “The ’16s are eminently drinkable now.”

“Er, no. I can’t say as I really care for-”

“You’re sure, sir? The clean, fresh fruit notes will pair nicely with the sour cream and onion potato chips. Even the least sophisticated palate can appreciate it.”