Which makes things nice for me.
They're superstitious; it's a part of the circuitry. Theywere designed to serve man, and during his brief time onearth, awe and devotion, as well as dread, were automatic things. Even the last man, dead Kennington, commanded every robot in existence while he lived. Hisperson was a thing of veneration, and all his orders wereobeyed.
And a man is a man, alive or dead—which is why thegraveyards are a combination of hell, heaven, and strangefeedback, and will remain apart from the cities so longas the earth endures.
But even as I mock them they are looking behind thestones and peering into the gullies. They are searchingfor—and afraid they might find—me.
I, the unjunked, am legend. Once out of a million assemblies a defective such as I might appear and go undetected, until too late.
At will, I could cut the circuit that connected me withCentral Control, and be a free 'bot, and master of myown movements. I liked to visit the cemeteries, becausethey were quiet and different from the maddening stampstamp of the presses and the clanking of the crowds; Iliked to look at the green and red and yellow and bluethings that grew about the graves. And I did not fear theseplaces, for that circuit, too, was defective. So when I wasdiscovered they removed my vite-box and threw me onthe junk heap, But the next day I was gone, and their fear was great.
I no longer possess a self-contained power unit, butthe freak coils within my chest act as storage batteries.They require frequent recharging, however, and thereis only one way to do that.
The werebot is the most frightful legend whisperedamong the gleaming steel towers, when the night windsighs with its burden of fears out of the past, from days