"Thou art Jackson," said the robot solemnly. "And Thou art testing me
to see whether I would so easily abandon my Supervisor."
"Not testing," Angus said. "Just asking. Come on, how about it?"
"Praise Jackson!" 204 cried.
"Jackson! Jackson!" intoned the throng.
Drummond leaned an elbow on 76's skull plate and disgustedly cupped his
chin in his hand. "What if they _are_ chiropractor robots?"
"We'll probably need one after this ride," Angus said uncomfortably.
"Not like we'll need a way to get back to the ship and cut off those
converters before they over-charge."
"Slow charge?" Angus asked between grunts timed with 204's stride.
"Hell, no. I didn't think we'd be here more than a couple of hours. By
tomorrow at this time, there'll be a crater out there big enough to
bury the Capellan fleet."
"Great," said Angus. "That gives us another thing to worry about."
The robots fell into two groups as they neared a cave in the cliff.
"Jackson is my Supervisor!" chanted the ones on the right.
"I shall not rust!" answered those on the left.
"He maketh me to adjust my joint tension!" cried the first group.
"Oh, brother," said Drummond.
"Sounds like a psalm," suggested Angus.
"You ought to know. You always got your nose in that Bible."
"Notice anything peculiar about them?"
"Very funny," sneered Drummond at the question.
"No, I'm serious."
"They bounce the daylights out of you when they walk," Drummond
grumbled.
"No. Their finish. It's shiny--like they were fresh out of the
factory--not like they've been marooned here for a hundred years."
* * * * *
Drummond scratched his chin. "Maybe their compulsion is metal
polishing."
"Not with the kind of fingers they have."
Angus indicated the hand that held his ankle. Three digits were
wrenches of various sizes. The index finger was a screwdriver. The
thumb was a Stillson wrench. The thumb on the other hand was a disclike
appendage.