“Well, Mecho just put out that jaw-model. It’s not half bad … costs about twice what this model ran. Of course,” the serviceman added thoughtfully, “we have an equivalent. We can match their best, and for less money.”

Keeping his voice as calm as possible, Tom said: “I want this one fixed. I’m not getting another.”

“I’ll do what I can. But it won’t be the same as it was. The damage goes pretty deep. I’d advise you to trade it in—you can get damn near what you paid. With the new models coming out in a month or so, the salesmen are eager as hell to—”

“Let me get this straight.” Shakily, Tom Fields lit up a cigarette. “You people really don’t want to fix these, do you? You want to sell brand-new ones, when these break down.” He eyed the repairman intently. “Break down, or are knocked down.”

The repairman shrugged. “It seems like a waste of time to fix it up. It’s going to get finished off, anyhow, soon.” He kicked the misshapen green hull with his boot. “This model is around three years old. Mister, it’s obsolete.”

“Fix it up,” Tom grated. He was beginning to see the whole picture; his self-control was about to snap. “I’m not getting a new one! I want this one fixed!”

“Sure,” the serviceman said, resigned. He began making out a work-order sheet. “We’ll do our best. But don’t expect miracles.”

While Tom Fields was jerkily signing his name to the sheet, two more damaged Nannies were brought into the repair building.

“When can I get it back?” he demanded.

“It’ll take a couple of days,” the mechanic said, nodding toward the rows of semi-repaired Nannies behind him. “As you can see,” he added leisurely, “we’re pretty well full-up.”

“I’ll wait,” Tom said tautly. “Even if it takes a month.”

“Let’s go to the park!” Jean cried.

So they went to the park.

It was a lovely day, with the sun shining down hotly and the grass and flowers blowing in the wind.