Joe nodded. "That's right. But I don't know your name."
"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.