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And a man is a man, alive or dead—which is why thegraveyards are a combination of hell, heaven, and strange feedback, and will remain apart from the cities so long as the earth endures.
But even as I mock them they are looking behind the stones and peering into the gullies. They are searching for—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 co
I no longer possess a self-contained power unit, but the freak coils within my chest act as storage batteries. They require frequent recharging, however, and there is only one way to do that.
The werebot is the most frightful legend whispered among the gleaming steel towers, when the night wind sighs with its burden of fears out of the past, from days when non-metal beings walked the earth. The half-lifes, the preyers upon order, still cry darkness within the vitebox of every 'bot.
I, the discontent, the unjunked, live here in Rosewood Park, among the dogwood and myrtle, the headstones and broken angels, with Fritz—another legend—in our deep and peaceful mausoleum.
Fritz is a vampire, which is a terrible and tragic thing. He is so undernourished that he can no longer move about, but he ca
We talk. At night, when the moon is full and he feels strong enough, he tells me of his better days, in placescalled Austria and Hungary, where he, too, was feared and hunted.
"... But only a stainless steel leech can get blood out of a stone—or a robot," he said last night. "It is a proud and lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech—you are possibly the only one of your kind in existence. Live up to your reputation! Hound theml Drain theml Leave your mark on a thousand steel throatsl"
And he was right. He is always right. And he knows more about these things than I.
"Ke
"But at night, ah, at night!" he chuckled. "Then things were reversed! I was the hunter and he the preyl
"I remember his frantic questing after the last few sprays of garlic and wolfsbane on earth, the crucifix assembly lines he kept in operation around the clock— irreligious soul that he was! I was genuinely sorry when he died, in peace. Not so much because I hadn't gotten to drain him properly, but because he was a worthy opponent and a suitable antagonist. What a game we played!"
His husky voice weakened.
"He sleeps a scant three hundred paces from here, bleaching and dry. His is the great marble tomb by the gate... . Please gather roses tomorrow and place them upon it."
I agreed that I would, for there is a closer kinship between the two of us than between myself and any 'hot, despite the dictates of resemblance. And I must keep my word, before this day passes into evening and although there are searchers above, for such is the law of my nature.
"Damn them! (He taught me that word.) Damn them!" I say. "I'm coming up! Beware, gentle *bots! I shall walk among you and you shall not know me. I shall Join in the search, and you will think I am one of you. Ishall gather the red flowers for dead Ke
I climb the cracked and hollow steps, the east already Spilling twilight, and the sun half-Udded in the west I emerge.
The roses live on the wall across the road. From great twisting tubes of vine, with heads brighter than any rust, they bum like danger lights on a control panel, but moistly.
One, two, three roses for Ke
**What are you doing, 'hot?" "Gathering roses."
**You are supposed to be searching for the werebot Has something damaged you?"
**No, I'm all right," I say, and I fix him where he stands, by bumping against bis shoulder. The circuit completed, I drain his vile-box until I am filled.
'Tfou are the wereboti" he intones weakly.
He falls with a crash.
... Six, seven, eight roses for Ke
"What happened here, •hot?" '
"He is stopped, and I am picking roses," I tell them.
There are four *bots and an Over.
"It is time you left this place," I say. "Shortly it will be night and the werebot will walk. Leave, or he will end you."
"You stopped himi" says the Over. "You are the wereboti"
I bunch all the flowers against my chest with one arm and turn to face them. The Over, a large special-order *bot, moves toward me. Others are approaching from all directions. He had sent out a call.
"You are a strange and terrible thing," he is saying, and you must be junked, for the sake of the community."
He seizes me and I drop Ke
I ca
There are dozens around me now, fearing and hating. They will junk me and I will lie beside Ke
**Rust in peace," they will say. ... I am sony that I ca
No! It is shrouded and moldering Fritz in the doorway of the mausoleum, swaying, clutching at the stone. He always knows....
"Release himi I, a human, order it"
He is ashen and gasping, and the sunlight is doing awful things to him.
—The ancient circuits click and suddenly I am free. "Yes, master," says the Over. "We did not know. ., .*'
"Seize that robotF
He points a shaking emaciated finger at him. "He is the werebot," he gasps. "Destroy biro! The one gathering flowers was obeying my orders. Leave him here with me." He falls to his knees and the final darts of day pierce his flesh.
"And got All the rest of you! QuicklyI It is my order that no robot ever enter another graveyard againi"
He collapses within and I know that now there are only bones and bits of rotted shroud on the doorstep of our home.
Pritz has had his final joke—a human masquerade.
I take the roses to Ke
Now only I remain unjunked.
In the final light of the sun I see them drive a stake through the Over's vite-box and bury him at the crossroads.
Then they hurry back toward their towers of steel, of plastic. I gather up what remains of Fritz and carry him down to his box. The bones are brittle and silent.
. . , It is a very proud and very lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech.