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.
Then he had his shoes changed into a cat. Afterwards, he had the cat changed back into new shoes. His two suits, brought out of the musty closet, were changed to brilliant, cloth-of-gold togas: then, because togas were hardly practical, he changed them back into new, expensive suits. With that beginning, he proceeded to rejuvenate his entire wardrobe. He began adding to it, acquiring some much-needed extra linen and some much-desired sportsclothes, but the process had to be reversed when he noticed the wallpaper was disappearing from the walls, the closet was minus its door, and the air in the room was beginning to reek with ozone. Mrs. Haggerty would never stand for that!
And by sheer accident, he learned how to control the robot's influence on surrounding matter. When he had concluded that shoes were a more practical possession than a cat, he had accidentally typed the phrase: SHOES FROM THE CAT.
And—with the glow, click, crack, and ozone smell—the cat had become a new pair of shoes. If he hadn't mentioned the cat, the robot might have jerked out one of the dresser drawers and made it into a pair of new shoes....
He sat at the writing table, staring at the metal globe set before him. It's like the Midas touch, he mused reflectively. Old King Midas, sitting in his treasure rooms, watching gold coins dribble through his fingers; the old King had thought it would be wonderful if he could turn everything he touched into gold—until he could, and finally touched his young daughter—