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one stalker. The stalker is part of my dining room crew, and our new manager is thinking of sending him home. I think he is so old at 62 that he is harmless, but the object of his attentions is not amused.
    We had so many string beans this year that we canned enough for at least two more years. It amazes me that some crops are very good one year and very poor another. I believe the weather is uniformly cold year after year, but the farmers assure me this is not the case.
    Water remains constant, though. Most of it comes directly from the polar regions of the planet, gathered in large lakes as the seasons change and piped to the several cities along the planet’s equator. We have never had any lack of water, either in the kitchens or on the farms. Even my little hut has running water, both hot and cold.
    Another visit this year from our clients, the Batwigs. They never talk to us but, instead, stand in the door and greet their countrymen as they enter. They seem to be taking some kind of a survey.
    Of course, we take a survey every day. How many meals were served, what was eaten, what was left over. We have over sixty years of these records, and our reports show that we are increasing our numbers of meals each year.
    The new facility was finally approved, but it will be significantly different from the place I imagined. We will have four dining rooms branching off one enormous kitchen. Each dining room will serve a different meal, all day long. Certainly this will be easier for us, but will the crowds spread themselves around? Or have we trained them to expect our breakfast/lunch/dinner routine?
    Another change will be that we will need to have a facility for around-the-clock snacks. On the architectural drawings this looks like an old Automat, with little doors that open. No coins will be required, though. Anybody who wants something will be able to drive up in its little one-seater and take small portions of cake or pie or that local tea. Of course, we will need to keep this facility filled at all hours.
    December 25, 2143  
    A very merry Christmas this year. We received extra hut heaters from the American government!
    This is the year I owe the kitty $10,000. Yes, an affair! It only lasted four months, but it was the first passion I have felt in many years, certainly since the twins were born.
    The only thing we had in common was the Tuesday day off, but that was enough. After the courting and the bedding, it cooled quickly, but it was long enough for me to realize I’m not dead. He’s off to another woman, and I’m left with only the memories and a reduced bill at the commissary.
    The new building is becoming more of a reality. The first poles were driven into the ground in August, and the floor is nearly complete now. I sometimes walk to the building site on my lunch break. Most of the workers are robots, of course, but the Batwigs are in charge.
    Nothing ever is done quickly here, it seems. Building projects move slowly, with many, many layers of agreements required. If somebody wants a change higher up, the process for agreements starts afresh. Right now the architectural plans are finalized but the interiors are the subject of discussions at all levels. Whatever do the Monarchs care about it? They rarely enter the present building, and certainly never to take a meal here.
    The Fundamentalists are not getting replacements, I understand. People are going home, but others are not coming.
    Our own numbers continue to grow. We have about thirty percent more people on the farms than we had when I arrived and about five percent more in the kitchen. The numbers of meals served continues to climb, with fewer Clarklians dying of famine and, consequently, more Clarklians being born. Are all the entities who are born becoming our clients? Are only the poor gaining in numbers?
    Poor Clarklians are very similar to poor Earthlings. They have patched clothes, bad teeth, and rough skin. However, they do not avoid bathing; public