“You’ll see in a minute.”

“Tom, it’s past their bedtime,” Mary protested. “Can’t they look at it tomorrow?”

“I want them to look at it now.” Tom disappeared downstairs into the basement and returned with a screwdriver. Kneeling on the floor beside the crate he began rapidly unscrewing the bolts that held it together. “They can go to bed a little late, for once.”

He removed the boards, one by one, working expertly and calmly. At last the final board was gone, propped up : against the wall with the others. He unclipped the book of instructions and the 90-day warranty and handed them to Mary. “Hold onto these.”

“It’s a Nanny!” Bobby cried.

“It’s a huge, huge Nanny!”

In the crate the great black shape lay quietly, like an enormous metal tortoise, encased in a coating of grease. Carefully checked, oiled, and fully guaranteed. Tom nodded. “That’s right. It’s a Nanny, a new Nanny. To take the place of the old one.”

“For us?”

“Yes.” Tom sat down in a nearby chair and lit a cigarette. “Tomorrow morning we’ll turn her on and warm her up. See how she runs.”

The children’s eyes were like saucers. Neither of them could breathe or speak.

“But this time,” Mary said, “you must stay away from the park. Don’t take her near the park. You hear?”

“No,” Tom contradicted. “They can go in the park.”

Mary glanced uncertainly at him. “But that orange thing might—”

Tom smiled grimly. “It’s fine with me if they go into the park.” He leaned toward Bobby and Jean. “You kids go into the park any time you want. And don’t be afraid of anything. Of anything or anyone. Remember that.”

He kicked the end of the massive crate with his toe.

“There isn’t anything in the world you have to be afraid of. Not anymore.”

Bobby and Jean nodded, still gazing fixedly into the crate.

“All right, Daddy,” Jean breathed.

“Boy, look at her!” Bobby whispered. “Just look at her! I can hardly wait till tomorrow!”