"If that is Thy wish, True Jackson, you may go," said 76 submissively.
As he watched unbelievingly, a corridor opened in their ranks,
extending toward the woods and the ship beyond. He glanced anxiously at
his watch. There was still more than an hour left.
Wearily, he dropped from the ledge and trudged toward freedom, trying
to look straight ahead. His eyes, nevertheless, wandered to the
dejected figures who faced him with their heads bowed.
Then he laughed again, realizing the illogical nature of his solicitous
thoughts. Imagine--_dejected_ clunkers! Still, the metal faces seemed
somehow different. Where, a moment earlier, he had fancied expressions
of jubilation, now there was the sense of hopelessness on the steel
plates.
* * * * *
Shrugging off his uncertainty, he walked faster. After all, was it
_his_ fault they'd stumbled upon a substitute for birth and death
and had become something more than clunkers? What was he supposed to
do--stay and play missionary, bring them the Truth so that when a
deactivation crew came along, they would be so advanced morally that no
one would suggest their destruction?
He stopped and scanned the ranks on either side. He'd do one thing
for them, at least--he wouldn't report the wreck. Then it would be
centuries, probably, before another ship wandered far enough away from
the trade routes to intercept the distress signals.
Relieved by his decision, he went ahead more at ease.
And the litany started again--softly, appealing:
"Jackson is my Supervisor."
"I shall not rust...."
Angus stiffened abruptly and stared at his watch, realizing belatedly
that it had stopped. But how long ago? How much time did he have left?
Should he take the chance and make a dash for the converters?
He reached the end of the robot corridor and started to sprint for the
ship.
But he halted and turned to glance back at the humble, patient horde.
They were expectantly silent now--as though they could sense his
indecision. He backed away from them.
Then the light of a hundred Arcturan days flared briefly and a mighty
mountain of sound and concussion collapsed on him. The trees buckled
and branches were hurled out against the cliff. It rained leaves and
pieces of metal from the hull for a long while as Angus hugged the
ground.
When he finally looked up, familiar bits of the ship were strewn
around him--a spacesuit helmet here, a control dial there, a
transmitter tube up ahead.
He rose shakily, staring at a black book that lay near the helmet with
its pages ruffled. He picked it up and straightened out the leaves.
Then he motioned to the robots and they clustered around him.
He would have to start from the beginning.
He wet his lips.
"In the beginning," Angus read in a loud, convincing voice, "_God_
created heaven and earth and the earth was void and empty and darkness
was upon the face of the deep. And _God_ said, 'Let there be light'...."