Oxygénia

The translator had two buttons, one labeled Vox, the other one
had a hieroglyph. The first activated the translation of spoken
language, the latter one translated letters and scripts. Peter turned
the controls. A little lamp shone on, lit the menu, and with this, the
translation appeared:
Algae sauce, requests one unit of oxygen to eat;
Mushroom cream, two units oxygen;
Mixed casserole, two units oxygen;
Casserole with banana cream, four units oxygen.
'I'm reading this and yet don't understand', Peter thought. Back
in school, he had learned that in ancient times, food hadn't been
available infinitely on Earth and had its price back then. When
someone went to a restaurant or a grocery store, a certain amount
of "money" had to be given in exchange for the food. He wouldn't
have been surprised if behind the algae sauce, it would've read: one
bit of gold. But why was it important how much oxygen was needed
to eat it?
The speaker on his table sounded with a strangely deep,
resonate voice. Quietly first, then more impatient. Peter switched
the translator to "Vox", and he heard it from the little device:
"You didn't order yet..."
"Mushroom cream", he said quickly. The translator said
something aloud as it translated Peters reply to the unknown
asking one. The grey table surface opened up, and on a plate, a
mash-like dish appeared, together with a spoon-like thing. Peter
took his gas mask off his face, but pushed it back the next instant,
shocked. The air that hit his face was acidic and made him choke.
He looked at his food clueless. If he took the mask off his mouth, he
would suffocate. If he let it on, he couldn't eat. He looked around
and at the others. They all only had the trunk-like mask. They put
the gauze-like cloth which covered their mouth aside and took one
end of the spoon in the mouth, about the same way like a straw. It
was only now that he realised that the handle of the spoon was
hollow, like a pipe. He would need to get such a half-mask
somewhere. With some trouble, he managed to put aside his
breather a little bit from his chin and put the spoon handle in his
mouth. Now he could suck the mash. It indeed tasted a bit like
mushrooms, but a bit like salted semolina, too. It tasted neither
especially well nor especially bad.
He had profusely began to sweat when he had finished his meal.
Once again, he heard something from the speaker.
"Your health", the interplanetary computer translated.
15