"My hand," said Bishop. "I burned it in a fire."
A panel popped open in the cabinet.
"Put it in there," said the cabinet. "I'll fix it in a jiffy."
Bishop thrust his hand into the opening. He felt fingerlike appendages going over it, very gently and soothing.
"It's not a bad burn, sir," said the cabinet, "but I imagine it is painful."
Playthings, Bishop thought.
This hotel is a dollhouse - or a doghouse.
It is a shack, a tacked-together shack like the boys of Earth build out of packing cases and bits of board and paint crude, mystic signs upon.
Compared to that room back there, it is no more than a hovel, although, come to think of it, a very gaudy hovel.
Fit for humans, good enough for humans, but a hovel just the same.