Joe's mouth got set and I could see a storm blowing up so I struggled to my feet and got my hat. "That was awful nice chili, Missus Shannon," I says, and it isn't much more than two seconds later when I'm out the front door and walking up the sidewalk. * * * * * Well, Joe--stubborn Irishman that he was--stayed right in town during his vacation. He had a laboratory in the basement and every day when I went by I could hear him and Wally Claus, his assistant, working down there, hammering and nailing and running electric motors that spat sparks and whined worse'n two alley cats fightin' in a fish market. On the day that it's finished, Joe invites me over for dinner again. After the meal's over--and Joe's so anxious that he don't even tell Marge how nice the tuna fish casserole was--we go down into the basement. Marge doesn't come along. "What's the matter with Marge?" I ask. "Ain't she interested?" Joe jams his hands in his pockets, scowls, and says: "We've been having a little trouble, Harry. She doesn't see things my way." It isn't any of my business so I clam up and walk over to where the whole front half of the basement is curtained off with a couple of old sheets and a drawstring. "This is it," Joe says proudly, pulling on the drawstring. "The greatest invention since the wheel!" Well, to tell you the truth, son, I was kinda disappointed. I had expected something big and shiny but what there was looked a little like a cross between a phone booth and one of those things in train stations where you take your own photograph. I looked inside and all I could see was a big screen in front, like on a television set, a coin slot, and a funny looking hat with a cable leading out of it. "It's real nice," I says, not actually knowing whether it was or not. "What is it?" "I call it a _Paradise_ booth," Joe says. I took another look at the machine, and then looked at Joe. It occurs to me that maybe he's been working too hard or that arguments with Marge have sorta unsettled him. "Look, Harry," Joe says, "remember when we were talking about all the people who didn't fit in this world?" "Sure I remember," I says. "What's this got to do with it?" "What if people could choose the type of world they wanted to live in?" I looks at him blankly. "I don't get it." He fishes around for his pipe and lights up. "How big's the universe, Harry?" "Now son, I got no idea how big the universe is and I says so. All I know is that it's _big_." "Most scientists say the universe is infinite," Joe explains. "And if it's infinite, then it must have an infinite number of worlds in it. An actual world to match whatever kind of world you can dream up, let's say. All you have to do is step into the _Paradise_ booth, put on the cap, visualize the kind of world you want to live in so it shows on the screen, and off you go!" "You're kidding," I says feebly. "You don't really mean it."