"Are you calling yourself a deity?" Channing shuddered at the possibility. Along with Health and P. W. and Ellen, every church on Earth might soon be clamoring for his scalp.
"Yes and no. Why create—or accept—the godhood if you have the power yourself? No wish-fulfillment was involved. And we never stopped creating."
"Are you trying to tell me that you ... that you can actually, well, create things out of air?"
"Out of nothing, Mr. Channing. For we create nothing. We merely establish your Mr. Hume's collocation of qualities around any desired pattern. We do not admit the existence of the external world, so we are not bothered about creating parts of it. You understand?"
"How do you do it?"
"We do it."
"Where will you stop?"
Qui Dor made the shrugging gesture again. "I see that the problem is a domestic one for you as well. Here." He reached into a drawer of his desk and produced a diamond-studded tiara.
Channing touched it gingerly, as if the many-faceted gems might burn his fingers. "Was this there a minute ago?" he asked.
"It was there when I opened the drawer and looked for it. It is there now, when you are touching it. But put it back in the drawer, Mr. Channing."