"Just a minute, then!" Joe faced back toward the cabin and steadied the robot. Deftly, he began typing: SMALL HOUSE FROM CABIN FOR MR. BOWEN, ALL CONVENIENCES, FURNISHED.
There was the blue glow and faint click from the globe—then, a thunderous crash from the trees! A strong gust of wind whipped waves across the mirror-surface of the lake.
It was a small, white stucco house, with a low, rock wall extending around a garden in front. Bright flowers bloomed in the garden, vines climbed the trellises at the little windows. The roof was bright red tile. Bowen stared back at it, his face tight, his gray eyes misting.
"There," Joe said kindly. "That should fix you up."
"I—I didn't ask for it!" Bowen protested stubbornly. "I didn't earn it!"
"Oh, but you will!" Joe grinned brightly. "You're going to earn it by not telling anyone about what I'm going to do out here!" Chuckling softly, he turned and trudged on out toward the clearing.
Barbara caught up with him and tugged at his arm. "Joe," she pleaded. "Please, Joe! Don't do anything you'll be sorry for—"
Then they stopped at the clearing's edge. Joe cradled the robot on his arm, touched his fingers to the keyboard—and paused, silent for a moment. "I'll never be sorry for doing this!" he said, finally, and began typing.
One minute, there was the small clearing, green grass waving gently in the warm afternoon sunshine. Then the very heavens seemed to split open and a giant thunderbolt came hurtling into the ground. The concussion almost knocked them off their feet.