"James Bowen," the man said stiffly. "Come in, Mr. Linger."
Joe hesitated, shook his head. "First, Mr. Bowen, I want to explain,"
he said. "I'm a stranger--your daughter has never met me--and yet, I
was able to get her first name and telephone number. I thought you
might like to know how I did that."
Bowen scowled darkly. "Well, please come in, Mr. Linger," he insisted
stiffly. "We'll sit down and discuss the matter--"
"No," Joe refused, shaking his head again. "I want to show you
something, first. I want you to see exactly what this is all about--"
He cradled the robot in his arm and began typing on its keyboard,
turning to face the driveway as he did so.
Bowen stepped out the door and stared at Joe's yellow convertible. Then
he jerked back, startled.
There was a swirling blue glow from the bright globe, a faint click.
And then--
_Crack!_
* * * * *
Bowen grabbed at the door, his eyes bulging as he stared out at the
driveway. Air currents swirled and eddied across the front lawn. The
convertible had vanished.
"This globe is a robot mechanism," Joe said hastily. "It transmuted the
metal atoms of that car into molecules of air. It can change any matter
into any shape, form, or object desired! Watch!" Swiftly, he began
typing again.
The swirling glow and sound effects were repeated.
And in the driveway, poised gracefully on its tricycle landing gear,
was a small, gleaming light plane!
"I made that out of air molecules, too," Joe explained. "That is, the
robot made it."
"Get--get that airplane off my driveway!" Bowen stammered hoarsely.
"The neighbors will--"
Joe typed busily. The glow and noise repeated. The plane disappeared.
"Now you've seen it," Joe said quietly, gazing up at the tall, dazed
man. "This is what I want to talk to you about. I--I need help, Mr.
Bowen--"
"Come in," Bowen said weakly. "Come in--but turn that god-forsaken
thing off!" He turned and walked back into the house. "Atomic bombs,
hydrogen bombs--and now, _this_! And I'd always thought they'd have
rocket ships first--"
Joe followed him in through a short foyer to a small, comfortable
living room. Then, in the living room doorway, he stopped. He felt the
breath go out of him in a long sigh, and an excited fluttering in his
chest.
Barbara Bowen stood across the room, beside the front window. She had
heard the noises, had seen what happened. She was pale and frightened.
And she was beautiful. Soft, dark hair framed a peach oval of a face
with large gray eyes, short nose, and perfect lips. A soft blue
housecoat draped over a smoothly curved, long-limbed figure.
Bowen had crossed the room and settled into a comfortable chair, taking
out his pipe and tobacco pouch. "Sit down, Mr. Linger," he offered,
with a gesture to a nearby chair. "This is my daughter, Barbara."
"Hello," Barbara said simply. Her voice was a soft, husky sound.
Joe merely swallowed and nodded, then crossed hurriedly to the
proffered chair. Barbara sat down on the couch.
Then, haltingly at first, but with a constantly growing familiarity,
Joe told them everything that had happened. He took the letter from
Myytnor Skurle out of his pocket and showed it to them.
For several minutes after he finished, Mr. Bowen sat smoking his pipe
and staring into space.
"Have you tried making money with it, Mr. Linger?" he asked, pensively.
"No," Joe admitted. "There doesn't seem to be any need for me to have
money."
Bowen rose with sudden decision and crossed to a low writing desk. He
got a piece of paper and, after some searching, a small magnifying
glass. Then he returned and laid the paper on the small coffee table.
"There," he said. "Change that into some five-dollar bills."
Joe stared at the paper, frowning, then cradled the bright globe in his
lap, and began typing. The usual effects followed.
The paper changed into four five-dollar bills.
Bowen picked them up and returned to the writing desk. He took out
his wallet, extracted a five-dollar bill, and sat down. Carefully, he
examined the robot's bills against his own.
* * * * *
Minutes dragged past. Joe licked his lips nervously, noticed that
Barbara was doing the same thing, and they stared at each other. Then
Barbara smiled, and he smiled, and--
"Mr. Linger," Bowen spoke sharply, "I want you to do something
else--no, wait!" He rose and walked back to them. "Mr. Linger, let me
try that robot thing!"
Joe glanced at Barbara, then mutely handed the globe to Bowen.
"Now," Bowen said, turning, "Barbara, get off the couch, will you?"
"Yes, father!" Barbara rose hurriedly.
"Um," said Mr. Bowen. He cradled the globe on his arm and pecked at the
keyboard.
There was the swirling blue glow, the faint click--and a loud _crack_
that rattled the windows. The air swirled about the room, reeking with
ozone--
And where the couch had been was now an ugly, anti-tank cannon,
squatting heavily on its rubber tires.
"Holy cow!" Joe exclaimed, jumping to his feet.
"Uh _huh_!" Bowen grunted, satisfied. He handed back the robot. "Now,
if you please, Mr. Linger--give us back our couch! Can you?"
"Why--why, yes--" Joe stammered. He took the robot and changed Bowen's
cannon back into the couch it had been.
"Uh _huh_!" Bowen grunted again. He settled into his chair and resumed
smoking his pipe, calmly.
Joe returned to his seat, frowning perplexedly. Barbara moved back
toward the couch--then hesitated, staring at it uncertainly, and moved
over toward Joe's chair. Almost without thinking, she perched herself
on the arm of his chair. Joe slipped his arm around her hips to steady
her, and neither of them seemed to notice their nearness. They sat
staring at her father.
Bowen stared into space, nodded, and grunted a few times. Finally, he
cleared his throat and began speaking.
"Mr. Linger, the bills that robot made are perfect. You couldn't
spot one of 'em for a counterfeit in a million years! And we've just
discovered that not only will the robot make weapons, but anyone
can work it--not just you! That puts a pretty serious light on the
business. I'm thoroughly convinced, young man, that with that robot of
yours, any man could become the ruler of the world!"
Joe gasped faintly. "That--that hadn't occurred to me!" he stammered
weakly.
Bowen smiled at him with warm friendliness. "I didn't think it had," he
said quietly. "But I'm afraid we're going to have to face facts. Joe,
your life isn't going to be worth a plugged nickel if this ever gets
out. Why, the moment you handed me that robot, I could've committed the
perfect murder--by _changing you into a statue_!"
Joe shook his head. "The robot can't influence animate objects," he
protested.
"Didn't you make a cat?" Bowen asked sharply.
Joe gulped nervously. _Yes, he had!_ And he'd changed the cat back into
new shoes--
"You mustn't deny the danger for a minute, Joe," Bowen went on,
gravely. "If ever the wrong people hear about that robot and get their
hands on it, you're as good as dead! And the rest of the world will
shortly be under the killer's thumb--"
"Father--" Barbara blurted impulsively. "Father, can't we--help him,
somehow?"
Bowen raised his brows and grinned at his daughter. "Maybe for your
sake, we'd better!" he exclaimed, chuckling.
Barbara fidgeted with embarrassment.
"I've been wondering about the people who sent the robot to you," Bowen
resumed seriously. "But it seems that they weren't interested so much
in what the robot might do to our world as they were in getting their
experiment done. So this seems to be left entirely in your hands,
Joe." He glanced up, his gray eyes boring into Joe's face. "Do you
want to make your own decision about it, or do you want us to make a
suggestion?"
Joe ran his fingers through his hair, nervously. "I'd--I'd appreciate
anything you say, Mr. Bowen! Anything!"
But in the back of his mind--even as Bowen began speaking again--Joe
felt the beginnings of an idea, a decision that formed and grew and
flooded into his whole being with the exhilaration of a drug! Even as
Bowen began speaking, Joe knew what he was going to do--what he _had_
to do--
* * * * *
The yellow convertible swung up over a shoulder and down the winding
dirt road into a narrow valley. Ahead lay a small lake.
"Your summer cabin's on the south shore, you say?" Joe asked, tooling
the big car down into the cool, tree-shaded lowland.
Bowen nodded, beside him. "I still think you ought to let me put my
oxygen torch to that thing."
Joe grinned and slowed the car, whipping it off the road into a small
clearing. A small, weatherbeaten cabin stood back among the pines.
Beyond the clearing was the sandy shore and the lake.
"There's our cabin," Barbara acknowledged, as Joe headed the car toward
it. He parked under the trees and they got out. He carried the bright
globe under his arm.
"Well," Bowen said, facing him, "We're here, now. What is it you plan
to do, Joe?"
Joe nodded toward the clearing. "I think I'd better do it out there,"
he said.
"It's wonderful up here on weekends," Barbara remarked, matching stride
with them as they started toward the clearing. She was wearing brief
shorts and a sweater, with a bright kerchief tied around her head.
"There's swimming and fishing and no one to bother us. Father's always
wished he could build a home up here--"