What did it matter? Collins gathered up the bills, whistling softly. As long as he had the wishing machine, he could take care of himself.
The next few days marked a great change in Collins’s fortunes. With the aid of the Powha Minnile Movers he took the Utilizer to upstate New York. There, he bought a medium-sized mountain in a neglected corner of the Adirondacks. Once the papers were in his hands, he walked to the centre of his property, several miles from the highway. The two movers, sweating profusely, lugged the Utilizer behind him, cursing monotonously as they broke through the dense underbrush.
“Set it down here and scram,” Collins said. The last few days had done a lot for his confidence.
The moving men sighed wearily and vanished. Collins looked around. On all sides, as far as he could see, was closely spaced forest of birch and pine. The air was sweet and damp. Birds were chirping merrily in the treetops, and an occasional squirrel darted by.
Nature! He had always loved nature. This would be the perfect spot to build a large, impressive house with a swimming pool, tennis courts and, possibly, a small airport.
“I want a house,” Collins stated firmly, and pushed the red button.
A man in a neat grey business suit and pince-nez appeared. “Yes, sir,” he said, squinting at the trees, “but you really must be more specific. Do you want something classic, like a bungalow, ranch, split-level, mansion, castle or palace? Or primitive, like an igloo or hut? Since you are an A, you could have something up-to-the-minute, like a semi face, an Extended New or a Sunken Miniature.”
“Huh?” Collins said. “I don’t know. What would you suggest?”
“Small mansion,” the man said promptly. “They usually start with that.”
“They do?”
“Oh, yes. Later, they move to a warm climate and build a palace.”
Collins wanted to ask more questions, but he decided against it. Everything was going smoothly. These people thought he was an A, and the true owner of the Utilizer. There was no sense in disenchanting them.
“You take care of it all,” he told the man.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “I usually do.”
The rest of the day, Collins reclined on a couch and drank iced beverages while the Maxima Olph Construction Company materialised equipment and put up his house.
It was a low-slung affair of some twenty rooms, which Collins considered quite modest under the circumstances. It was built only of the best materials, from a design of Mig of Degma, interior by Towige, a Mula swimming pool and formal gardens by Vierien.
By evening, it was completed, and the small army of workmen packed up their equipment and vanished.
Collins allowed his chef to prepare a light supper for him. Afterward, he sat in his large, cool living-room to think the whole thing over. In front of him, humming gently, sat the Utilizer.
Collins lighted a cheroot and sniffed the aroma. First of all, he rejected any supernatural explanations. There were no demons or devils involved in this. His house had been built by ordinary human beings, who swore and laughed and cursed like human beings. The Utilizer was simply a scientific gadget, which worked on principles he didn’t understand or care to understand.
Could it have come from another planet? Not likely. They wouldn’t have learned English just for him.
The Utilizer must have come from the Earth’s future. But how?
Collins leaned back and puffed his cheroot. Accidents will happen, he reminded himself. Why couldn’t the Utilizer have just slipped into the past? After all, it could create something from nothing, and that was much more complicated.
What a wonderful future it must be, he thought. Wishing machines! How marvellously civilised! All a person had to do was think of something. Presto! There it was. In time, perhaps, they’d eliminate the red button. Then there’d be no manual labour involved.
Of course, he’d have to watch his step. There was still the owner—and the rest of the A’s. They would try to take the machine from him. Probably, they were a hereditary clique …
A movement caught the edge of his eye and he looked up. The Utilizer was quivering like a leaf in a gale.
Collins walked up to it, frowning blackly. A faint mist of steam surrounded the trembling Utilizer. It seemed to be overheating.
Could he have overworked it? Perhaps a bucket of water …
Then he noticed that the Utilizer was perceptibly smaller. It was no more than two feet square and shrinking before his eyes.
The owner! Or perhaps the A’s! This must be the micro-transfer that Leek had talked about. If he didn’t do something quickly, Collins knew, his wishing machine would dwindle to nothingness and disappear.
“Leek Protection Services,” Collins snapped. He punched the button and withdrew his hand quickly. The machine was very hot.
Leek appeared in a corner of the room, wearing slacks and a sports shirt, and carrying a golf club. “Must I be disturbed every time I—”
“Do something!” Collins shouted, pointing to the Utilizer, which was now only a foot square and glowing a dull red.
“Nothing I can do,” Leek said. “Temporal wall is all I’m licensed for. You want the microcontrol people.” He hefted his golf club and was gone.
“Microcontrol,” Collins said, and reached for the button. He withdrew his hand hastily. The Utilizer was only about four inches on a side now and glowing a hot cherry red. He could barely see the button, which was the size of a pin.
Collins whirled around, grabbed a cushion and punched down.
A girl with horn-rimmed glasses appeared, note-book in hand, pencil poised. “With whom did you wish to make an appointment?” she asked sedately.
“Get me help fast!” Collins roared, watching his precious Utilizer grow smaller and smaller.
“Mr. Vergon is out to lunch,” the girl said, biting her pencil thoughtfully. “He’s de-zoned himself. I can’t reach him.”
“Who can you reach?”
She consulted her note-book. “Mr. Vis is in the Dieg Continuum and Mr. Elgis is doing field work in Paleolithic Europe. If you’re really in a rush, maybe you’d better call Transferpoint Control. They’re a smaller outfit, but—”
“Transferpoint Control. Okay—scram.” He turned his full attention to the Utilizer and stabbed down on it with the scorched pillow. Nothing happened. The Utilizer was barely half an inch square, and Collins realised that the cushion hadn’t been able to depress the almost invisible button.
For a moment Collins considered letting the Utilizer go. Maybe this was the time. He could sell the house, the furnishings, and still be pretty well off …
No! He hadn’t wished for anything important yet! No one was going to take it from him without a struggle.
He forced himself to keep his eyes open as he stabbed the white-hot button with a rigid forefinger.
A thin, shabbily dressed old man appeared, holding something that looked like a gaily coloured Easter egg. He threw it down. The egg burst and an orange smoke billowed out and was sucked into the infinitesimal Utilizer. A great billow of smoke went up, almost choking Collins. Then the Utilizer’s shape started to form again. Soon, it was normal size and apparently undamaged. The old man nodded curtly.
“We’re not fancy,” he said, “but we’re reliable.” He nodded again and disappeared.
Collins thought he could hear a distant shout of anger.
Shakily, he sat down on the floor in front of the machine. His hand was throbbing painfully.
“Fix me up,” he muttered through dry lips, and punched the button with his good hand.
The Utilizer hummed louder for a moment, then was silent. The pain left his scorched finger and, looking down, Collins saw that there was no sign of a burn—not even scar tissue to mark where it had been.