"O-o-o-o-o-oh!" I groaned.
"How do you feel?" he snapped.
"Feel? All right—physically." I looked up.
Concern flickered in his blue eyes. "What's the cube root of 4913?" he crackled sharply.
I've always been quick at figures. "It's—uh—17," I returned dully. "Why the devil—?"
"You're all right mentally," he announced. "Now—why were you sitting there like a dummy for half an hour? My idealizator must have worked, as is only natural for a van Manderpootz creation, but what were you thinking of?"
"I thought—I thought of 'girl'," I groaned.
He snorted. "Hah! You would, you idiot! 'House' or 'horse' wasn't good enough; you had to pick something with emotional connotations. Well, you can start right in forgetting her, because she doesn't exist."
I couldn't give up hope, as easily as that. "But can't you—can't you—?" I didn't even know what I meant to ask.
"Van Manderpootz," he announced, "is a mathematician, not a magician. Do you expect me to materialize an ideal for you?" When I had no reply but a groan, he continued. "Now I think it safe enough to try the device myself. I shall take—let's see—the thought 'man.' I shall see what the superman looks like, since the ideal of van Manderpootz can be nothing less than superman." He seated himself. "Turn that switch," he said. "Now!"