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.