George Hadley stood on the African grassland alone. The lions looked up from their feeding, watching him. The only flaw to the illusion was the open door through which he could see his wife, far down the dark hall, like a framed picture, eating her dinner abstractedly.

Go away, he said to the lions.

They did not go.

He knew the principle of the room exactly. You sent out your thoughts. Whatever you thought would appear. Let's have Aladdin and his lamp, he snapped. The veldtland remained; the lions remained.

Come on, room! I demand Aladin! he said.

Nothing happened. The lions mumbled in their baked pelts.

Aladin!

He went back to dinner. The fool room's out of order, he said. It won't respond.

Or-

Or what?

Or it can'trespond, said Lydia, because the children have thought about Africa and lions and killing so many days that the room's in a rut.

Could be.

Or Peter's set it to remain that way.

Set it?

He may have got into the machinery and fixed something.

Peter doesn't know machinery.

He's a wise one for ten. That I.Q. of his -

Nevertheless -

Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad.

The Hadleys turned. Wendy and Peter were coming in the front door, cheeks like peppermint candy, eyes like bright blue agate marbles, a smell of ozone on their jumpers from their trip in the helicopter.

You're just in time for supper, said both parents.

We're full of strawberry ice cream and hot dogs, said the children, holding hands. But we'll sit and watch.

Yes, come tell us about the nursery, said George Hadley.

The brother and sister blinked at him and then at each other. Nursery?

All about Africa and everything, said the father with false joviality.

I don't understand, said Peter.

Your mother and I were just traveling through Africa with rod and reel; Tom Swift and his Electric Lion, said George Hadley.