Admittedly, it was an extreme rarity that Dilworth Waterby should even consider arising for Sunday breakfast. In fact, Dilworth had not seen a Sunday morning, a real one, since that unfortunate day in his freshman year when the Lowell House bells had accidentally rung three hours early.

He slid over into the curvature of his form-fitting mattress and stared pensively at the Dali print which was taped upside down on the ceiling. It didn't seem to inspire him to breakfast. Perhaps, he thought--and the thought chilled him to the quick--this is the Sunday there is no breakfast. Dilworth had not protested when the Administration decided to eliminate breakfast on alternate Sundays. After all, as an empirical fact, he had never known Sunday breakfast ever to exist.

On the other hand, Dilworth's mind was flashing now, he had heard that there had been no breakfast last Thursday, and vague reminiscences of the Administration's decree told him that on the weeks Thursday breakfast was omitted, Sunday breakfast was served. That meant, of course, that this was the week of Tuesday's buffet lunch, but at least there wouldn't be liver for Monday's dinner until next week.

The really disturbing thing was that Dilworth couldn't be sure that Thursday breakfast had been omitted. He turned on his side to face the cracks in the wall, and watched intently as a black window spider crept slowly over the Dali. Somehow, it seemed to fit; it was right. The hands on the grandfather clock in the corner told Dilworth he had precious few minutes to resolve the question, for if breakfast was indeed being served, the dining hall would soon close.

"Wait a minute!" Dilworth exclaimed aloud. With lightning insight, he had crystallized the arguments, and the case for Sunday breakfast being served seemed to hinge on whether Sunday was the beginning or the end of the week. In Old Testament times, he knew, Sunday had been the beginning of the week, but perhaps things had changed with the Gregorian calendar... or even before.... And then, too, Dilworth hadn't been out of his room in a long time to talk to anyone. Anyway, in the last analysis, he decided, it was just a matter of attitude. Tossing his cashmere blanket to one side, he made up his mind to take a chance.

Dilworth rushed into the dining hall and was just catching the last button on his vest when the Chinese gong sounded, signalling the end of the food-serving period. He cleverly managed to steal a tray as the last stack was being carried away, and hurried along the serving line gathering unto himself everything that was still available. When he reached the end, he surveyed his fortune; and finding everything but the goat's milk unfamiliar, stood frozen near the jelly table in a state of stark amazement.

"In case you're wondering," a voice said, "this morning's breakfast is an experimental meal."

Dilworth recognized the voice. It belonged to the lady on the serving line who always tried for his tie with her ladle of gravy. So far, he had successfully fended her off, but she was becoming alarmingly accurate of late. Once, she had even managed to stain the fire dragon on his Japanese vest.

"But what's all this strange food?" he asked.

"That," she replied, pointing to something on the tray that appeared to be crawling, "is poached duck eggs on toast. There are a lot of ducks in Cambridge, you know." Dilworth didn't know, but he instinctively reached for the catsup.

"The other things," she assured him, "are so secret they wouldn't even tell us." She gave an audible chuckle. "See that man?" she said, singling out a well-dressed gentleman with pad and pencil. "He's observing the effects of this meal. You know, he measures how many ounces of milk are left over, and things like that."

At the moment, Dilworth observed, he was busy piling potato peelings on a scale and marking down notations now and then. Glancing again at his tray, Dilworth suddenly had no feeling for breakfast and as he shoved the tray into the automatic dispenser he noticed a sign which read:

Due to this morning's unscheduled breakfast, there will be no evening meal. Instead, the regular Friday afternoon tea will be substituted this week only, necessitating the elimination of fish as a second choice for Friday dinner, and the further change...

Dilworth ran back to his room, undressed, and flung himself on the bed. As he peered out from his cashmere blanket, waiting for the Lowell House bells to begin, he suddenly thought he understood what had motivated Dali to paint The Last Supper.