There was a swirling glow of blue radiance, a faintly audible click
from within the globe--then a loud, sharp _crack_ and the smell of
ozone!
A telephone rested on the bed beside him! Its black cord snaked across
the floor to the baseboard beside the chipped dresser.
Joe relaxed with a shuddering sigh. He mopped at the sweat on his
forehead with a wet palm--he had a telephone! The robot worked!
But did the telephone work? He reached over, lifted the receiver, and
placed it to his ear. The dial-tone was unmistakable.
He replaced the receiver on its cradle and sat staring at the 'phone.
Now that he had it, who would he call?
What did he _really_ want?
He looked down at the robot in his lap and swallowed hesitantly. He
had requested a telephone, so he got a telephone. But that wasn't what
he wanted. He knew--the realization grew in his mind--what he really
wanted, what any young guy would want, given the opportunity!
Feverishly, he clutched the robot in his lap and with a numb index
finger, began pecking at the keyboard. He finished the phrase--then,
hastily and with sudden apprehension, added a comma. His brow furrowed
with intense concentration for a moment, then he resumed typing.
When he finished, the small, glowing letters beneath the lens read:
A BEAUTIFUL GIRL,
WHOM I CAN TRUST.
There was the swirling blue radiance, as before. He heard the faintly
audible click from within the globe. His eyes shot around the room,
expectantly. A vision flashed into his mind--a vision of the girl who
would appear--young, with soft, dark hair tumbling to her shoulders,
delicate features and a slender, lovely figure. A neat, immaculate suit
would enhance her shapely curves. He waited....
Nothing happened. No sharp crack, no smell of ozone. The robot had
failed!
Joe sighed dismally. Resignedly, he steadied the robot in his lap and
reached his thumb for the "clear" button. Then he saw it.
The tiny, glowing letters beneath the lens were different! The words
he'd typed out were no longer there!
In their stead, he read:
DELAWARE 6-2717,
ASK FOR BARBARA!
* * * * *
He dialed the number.
"Hello?" a soft, feminine voice answered.
"Is this Barbara?" he asked.
"Yes. Who're you?"
"Joe Linger," he said. "Are you beautiful?"
"Why--I suppose so," came the modest answer. "What--"
"Can I trust you?" Joe persisted.
"Well, really!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Linger, I'm afraid I don't know
you--"
Joe groaned inwardly. Of course they were strangers! The robot couldn't
help that!
"Just--just what is it you want?" the girl's voice stammered from the
receiver.
"Nothing," Joe replied wearily. "Nothing, now. Maybe I'll call you
back."
He hung up and sat staring into space.
Anything he wanted--anything! Money? What use was money when he didn't
have to buy anything? Food? What about food? Meat and vegetables
weren't inanimate objects, either.
He set the bright globe in his lap and placed his fingertips on its
keyboard. Swiftly, he typed: SIRLOIN STEAK SMOTHERED IN ONIONS, GRAVY,
MASHED POTATOES, ASPARAGUS, TOAST, COFFEE, APPLE PIE A LA MODE.
There came the shimmering blue radiance, the faint click, the sharp
crack, and the smell of ozone.
Across the room, there was a battered writing table with a glass and a
chipped china pitcher half-filled with stale water. Glass and pitcher
vanished; instead, there sat the complete dinner, not only as he had
ordered it but cooked to perfection. Complete with dishes, silverware,
salt-and-pepper shakers, coffee cream, sugar bowl--everything.
After he had eaten, Joe settled back and surveyed the dishes. How to
get them washed? Furthermore, how to explain to Mrs. Haggerty, the
landlady, that he had not been cooking in his room and what happened to
her pitcher and glass?
He picked up the robot again and typed out: ONE PITCHER, ONE GLASS,
BELONGING TO MRS. HAGGERTY.
With swirling blue radiance, faint click, sharp crack, and smell of
ozone, the battered writing table resumed its former appearance.
Then he had his shoes changed into a cat. Afterwards, he had the cat
changed back into new shoes. His two suits, brought out of the musty
closet, were changed to brilliant, cloth-of-gold togas: then, because
togas were hardly practical, he changed them back into new, expensive
suits. With that beginning, he proceeded to rejuvenate his entire
wardrobe. He began adding to it, acquiring some much-needed extra linen
and some much-desired sportsclothes, but the process had to be reversed
when he noticed the wallpaper was disappearing from the walls, the
closet was minus its door, and the air in the room was beginning to
reek with ozone. Mrs. Haggerty would never stand for that!
And by sheer accident, he learned how to control the robot's influence
on surrounding matter. When he had concluded that shoes were a more
practical possession than a cat, he had accidentally typed the phrase:
SHOES FROM THE CAT.
And--with the glow, click, crack, and ozone smell--the cat had become a
new pair of shoes. If he hadn't mentioned the cat, the robot might have
jerked out one of the dresser drawers and made it into a pair of new
shoes....
He sat at the writing table, staring at the metal globe set before him.
_It's like the Midas touch_, he mused reflectively. Old King Midas,
sitting in his treasure rooms, watching gold coins dribble through his
fingers; the old King had thought it would be wonderful if he could
turn everything he touched into gold--until he could, and finally
touched his young daughter--
* * * * *
Joe pushed back his chair, and walked over to the bed. He sat down and
lifted the telephone receiver. Swiftly, he dialed the Delaware number.
"Hello?" It was the soft, feminine voice again.
"Barbara?" His tone was uncertain.
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Joe Linger," he said. "Barbara, I know you've never met me, but
I don't know anyone else who can help me. I've got to talk to
someone--maybe if I could talk to you, I'd be able to work things out?
Could--could I come over to see you?"
"Well-l-l-l," she replied doubtfully, "I really don't--"
"Is someone else there?" he asked anxiously. "Someone else in the
family?"
"Do you want to speak to father?"
"Yes--please!"
"Just a minute--"
As he waited, Joe laid down the receiver and returned to the table for
the robot. He brought it back to the bed, sat down, placed it in his
lap, and swiftly typed out: BARBARA'S ADDRESS.
A gruff voice rattled faintly from the receiver. "Hello? Hello, who's
this?"
There was a swirling blue glow and a click. Beneath the lens, at the
top of the keyboard, was Barbara's address.
Joe picked up the receiver. "My name is Joe Linger," he said. "Sir,
I don't know your name, but I thought I ought to see you. It's about
something your daughter has become involved in without her knowledge. I
thought you ought to know--"
"What?" The voice spoke sharply. "What're you talking about?"
"I'd rather not discuss it over the 'phone," Joe replied nervously.
"Could I come over to see you, personally?"
"Why--um, ah--why, yes!" A hard edge crept into the voice. "Perhaps
you'd _better_!"
Joe felt a wave of relief. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he
promised.
He was five minutes early. He parked the sleek, yellow convertible in
the driveway and climbed out. He looked dapper and well-groomed in
his dark, expensive suit as he went up the front steps and rang the
doorbell. The round, gleaming globe of the robot was tucked under his
arm.
The door was opened by a tall, stocky man with iron-gray hair. He raked
Joe with a sharp, piercing gaze. "You're Mr. Linger?"