"Thou art our Supervisor!" the throng roared.
"One of you is Jackson," explained 204. "The other is a Divine Test. We
must learn which is the True Supervisor."
"You're _not_ being tested!" McIntosh insisted.
"Our beliefs are firm, O Jackson!" cried a hundred metallic voices.
"Thou are the Supervisor!" declared 204 resolutely.
"For God's sake," urged Drummond, "tell 'em you're their Jackson and
then lay down the law."
"No. Can't do it that way."
"Why not? Unfair advantage, I suppose?" There was a cutting edge on the
younger man's words.
Angus stared thoughtfully at the robots. "If we only knew how they
forgot their origin, how they got religion, we might find a way to get
through to them."
Drummond laughed contemptuously. "_You_ figure it out. _I'm_ going to
play Jackson and get back to the ship." He turned toward the robots.
But McIntosh caught his arm. "Let me try something else first." He
faced the horde below. "Who made you?"
"Thou hast, O Supervisor!" the robots chanted like a gleeful Sunday
school class.
"And Thou hast put us on this world and robot begot robot until we were
as we are today," added 204 solemnly.
Drummond slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Now they
think they've got a sex function!"
Angus's shoulders fell dismally. "Maybe if we try to figure out their
designation. They're all RAs--whatever the A stands for."
There was a hollow rumbling in the cave that grew in volume until the
cliff shook. Then a second group of robots emerged and fanned out to
encircle the ledge.
"Hell," said Drummond in consternation. "There's twice as many as we
figured!"
"Thought there'd be more," Angus admitted. "That ship was big enough to
hold a thousand clunkers. And they didn't waste space in those days."
The newcomers fell prostrate alongside the others.
* * * * *
The planet's single satellite hung like a lost gem over the low
mountains east of the plain. It washed the cliff with a cloak of
effulgence and bathed the forbidden ship in an aura of gleaming silver.
Below the ledge, the reverent robots wavered occasionally and
highlights of coruscation played capriciously across their plates.
Their whispered invocations were a steady drone, like the soft touch of
the wind.
"Quit it!" Drummond yelled angrily. "Break it up! Go home!"
Angus sat with his head against the cliff, face tilted up. "That didn't
help any."
"When are they going to give up?"
McIntosh glanced abstractedly at the horde. "How long would we keep it
up if _our_ God appeared among us?"
Drummond swore. "Damned if you haven't been reading the print off that
Bible!"
"What do you suppose happened," Angus went on heedlessly, "to make them
more than clunkers--to make them grope for the basic truths?"
Drummond spat disgustedly in answer.
"Civilization goes on for a hundred years," Angus said as he leaned
back and closed his eyes, "spreading across a hunk of the Galaxy,
carrying along its knowledge and religious convictions. And all the
while, there's this little lost island of mimic beliefs--so much like
our own creed, except that their god is called Jackson."
Drummond rose and paced. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to set them
straight, if we're still sitting on this shelf eleven hours from now."
"Maybe that's what it'll take--bringing them step by step through
theology."
"Overnight?"
No, not overnight, Angus realized. It would take months to pound in new
convictions.