"What is the problem?" I asked, and also got out.

"The inspection has to be carried out by two people, at least two," he explained. Suddenly his face lit up. "Mr. Bregg! You are a cyberneticist! If only you would agree!"

"Ha," I said, smiling, "a cyberneticist. Add: ancient. I know nothing."

"But it's only a formality!" he interrupted me. "I'll take care of the technical side, of course. All we need is a signature, nothing more!"

"Really?" I said slowly. I could understand his hurry to get back to his wife, but I didn't like pretending to be what I wasn't; I am not cut out to be a figurehead; I told him this, though perhaps in gentler language. He raised his arms, as if to defend himself.

"Please, don't misunderstand me! But you must be in a hurry, aren't you? You had business in the city. In that case, I. . . somehow. . . forgive me for. . ."

"My business can wait," I replied. "Go ahead, please. If I am able, I will help you."

We went into a white building that stood to one side; Marger led me down a strangely empty corridor; several motionless robots stood in alcoves. In a small, simply furnished office he I took a sheaf of papers from a wall cabinet, spread them on the table, and began to explain the nature of his -- or, rather, our -- job. He was not much of a lecturer, and I soon had doubts about his chances for a scientific career: he kept a.s.suming I had knowledge of things that were completely unknown to me. I had to interrupt him repeatedly to ask embarra.s.singly elementary questions, but he, understandably not wanting to offend me, received all these proofs of my ignorance as if they were virtues.

In the end I learned that for the past fifty years or so there had existed a total separation between work and life. All production was automated and took place under the supervision of robots, which were overseen by other robots; there was no longer any place in this realm for people. Society led its own life, and the robots and automata theirs; except that, to prevent unforeseen aberrations in the established order of this mechanical army of labor, periodic inspections were necessary, and they were carried out by specialists. Marger was one of these.

"There can be no doubt," he explained, "that we will find everything normal; then we take a look at particular links in the processes, then leave our signatures, and that is all."

"But I do not even know what is produced here." I indicated the buildings through the window.

"Nothing whatever!" he exclaimed. "That is the whole point. Nothing. This is simply a dump for sc.r.a.p, as I told you."

I didn't particularly care for this role unexpectedly imposed on me, but I could not keep objecting.

"All right. What exactly am I supposed to do?"

"What I do: we make a tour of the complexes. . ."

We left the papers in the office and went out on the inspection. First was a huge sorting plant, where automatic scoops took hold of piles of sheet metal, twisted, broken trunks, crushed them, and threw them into compactors. The blocks ejected from these traveled by belts to the main conveyor. At the entrance Marger put on a small mask with a filter and handed one to me; we could not speak to each other on account of the din. The air was filled with a rust-colored dust that burst in red clouds out of the compactors. We continued through the next hall, also filled with noise, and took a moving walkway to a floor where rows of presses consumed the sc.r.a.p, which, now more finely broken down and quite featureless, was poured from hoppers. On an overhead gallery leading to a building opposite, Marger checked readings on control meters; then we went to the factory yard, where our way was blocked by a robot that said that Engineer Gloor wanted Marger on the phone.

"Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute!" called Marger, and ran up a winding stairway to a gla.s.s annex not far away. I stood alone on the pavement, which was hot from the sun. I looked around. The buildings at the far end of the lot we had already seen; they held the compactors and presses. What with the distance and the soundproofing, not a murmur reached me from there. Off by itself, behind the annex into which Marger had vanished, was a low and unusually long building, a kind of tin barracks; I headed for it to find some shade, but the heat from the metal walls was unbearable. I was about to leave when I heard a peculiar sound coming from inside the barracks, difficult to identify, not at all like the noise of machines at work. Thirty paces farther and I reached a steel door. In front of it stood a robot. At the sight of me, the robot opened the door and stepped aside. The curious sounds became stronger. I looked inside; it was not as dark as I had thought at first. Because of the murderous heat from the sheet metal I could hardly breathe, and would have backed out immediately had it not been for the voices. For they were human voices -- distorted, merging in a hoa.r.s.e chorus, bluped, babbling, as though in the gloom a pile of defective telephones were talking. I took two uncertain steps, something crunched beneath my feet, and clearly, from the floor, it spoke: "Pleash. . . shir. . . haff. . . "

I stood rooted to the spot. The stifling air tasted of iron. The whisper came from below.

"Pleash. . . haff. . . look ar-round. . . pleash. . ."

It was joined by a second, monotonous voice, steadily reciting: "O anomaly eccentric. . . O asymptote spherical. . . O pole in infinity. . . O protosystem linear. . . O system holonomic. . . O s.p.a.ce semimetrical. . . O s.p.a.ce spherical. . . O s.p.a.ce dielectrical. . ."

"Pleash. . . shir. . . yershervet. . . pleash. . ."

The darkness teemed with husky whisperings, out of which boomed: "The planetary bioplasm, its decaying mud, is the dawn of existence, the initial phase, and lot from the b.l.o.o.d.y, dough-brained cometh copper. . ."

"Brek -- break -- brabzel -- be. . . bre. . . veryscope. . ."

"O cla.s.s imaginary. . . O cla.s.s powerful. . . O cla.s.s empty. . . O cla.s.s of cla.s.ses. . ."

"Pleash. . . haff. . . look ar-round. . . shir. . ."

"Hush-sh. . ."

"You. . ."

"Sh-sh."

"Hear me. . ."

"I hear. . ."

"Can you touch. . . ?"

"Brek -- break -- brabzel. . ."

"No arms. . ."

"Sh-shame. . . you. . . you would see what a shiny and cold I am. . ."

"L-let them re. . . turn my armor, my golden sword. . . my inheri. . . tance. . . dis. . . possessed. . . night. . ."

"Behold the last efforts of the strutting croaking master of quartering and incarceration, for yea it riseth, thrice riseth the coming kingdom of the nonliving. . ."

"I'm new. . . quite new. . . I never had a short in the skeleton. . . I am still able. . . please. . ."

"Pleash. . ."

I did not know which way to look, asphyxiated by the merciless heat and those voices. They came from all sides. From the floor to the window slots below the ceiling rose heaps of twisted and tangled bodies; the little light that filtered in was reflected weakly in their dented metal.

"I had a temp, a temporary defect, but now I am all, am all right, I can see. . ."

"What do you see. . . it is dark. . ."

"Listen, please. I am invaluable, I am expensive. I indicate every power leak, I locate every stray current, every overload, just test me, please. . . This. . . this shaking is temporary. . . It has nothing in common with. . . please. . ."

"Pleash. . . shir. . ."

"And the dough-headed took their acid fermentation for a soul, the stabbing of meat for history, the means of postponing their decay for civilization. . ."

"Please, me. . . only me. . . it is a mistake. . ."

"Pleash. . . shir. . . haff. . ."

"I will save you. . ."

"Who is that. . ."

"What. . ."

"Who saves?"

"Repeat after me: the fire will not consume me utterly, and the water will not turn me all to rust, both elements will be a gate unto me, and I shall enter. . ."

"Hush-sh-sh!"

"The contemplation of the cathode --"

"Cathodoplation --"

"I am here by mistake. . . I think. . . I think, after all. . ."

"I am the mirror of betrayal. . ."

"Pleash. . . shir. . . yer shervet. . . haff a look ar-round. . ."

"O flight of the transfinite, O flight of the nebulae. . . O flight of the stars. . ."

"He is here!!!" something cried; and a sudden silence fell, a silence almost as penetrating in its terrible tension as the many-voiced chorus that had preceded it.

"Sir!!!" said something; I do not know why I was so sure, but I felt that these words were directed to me, I did not respond.

"Sir, please. . . a moment of your time. Sir, I -- am different. I am here by mistake."

There was a stir.

"Silence! I am living!" This outshouted the rest. "Yes, I was thrown in here, they dressed me in metal on purpose, so no one would know, but please, only put your ear to me and you will hear a pulse!"

"I also!" came a second voice over the first. "I also! Sir! I was ill; during my illness I imagined that I was a machine, that was my madness, but now I am well! Hallister, Mr. Hallister can vouch for me, please ask him, please get me out of here!"

"Pleash. . . pleash, shir. . ."

"Brek. . . break. . ."

"Your servant. . ."

The barracks buzzed and roared with rusty voices, at one point it was filled with a breathless scream, I began to retreat and stumbled backward into the sunlight, blinded, squinting; I stood awhile, shielding my eyes with my hand; behind me was a drawn-out grating sound; the robot had shut the door and bolted it.

"Sirrrr. . ." This still reached me through the wave of m.u.f.fled voices from behind the wall. "Pleash. . . service. . . a mistake. . ."

I pa.s.sed the gla.s.s annex. I did not know where I was going -- I only wanted to get away from those voices, not to hear them; I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Marger, fair-haired, handsome, smiling.

"I do apologize, Mr. Bregg. It took forever. . ."

"What will happen to them. . . ?" I interrupted, almost rudely, indicating the solitary barracks with my hand.

"I beg your pardon?" he blinked. "To whom?"

Suddenly he understood and was surprised: "Ah, you went there? There was no need. . ."

"Why no need?"

"That's sc.r.a.p."

"How do you mean?"

"Sc.r.a.p for recasting, after selection. Shall we go? We have to sign the official record."

"In a minute. Who conducts this selection?"

"Who? The robots."

"What? They do it themselves?"

"Certainly."

He fell silent under my gaze.

"Why aren't they repaired?"

"It wouldn't pay," he said slowly, with surprise.

"And what happens to them?"

"To the sc.r.a.p? It goes there," he pointed at the thin, solitary column of the furnace.

In the office the forms were ready, spread out on the desk -- the official record of the inspection, some other slips of paper -- and Marger filled in the blanks in order, signed, and gave me the pen. I turned it over in my fingers.

"And is there no possibility of error?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There, in that. . . sc.r.a.p, as you call it, can they wind up there. . . even when they are still efficient, in working order -- what do you think?"

He looked at me as if he did not understand what I was saying.

"That was the impression I got," I finished slowly.

"But that is not our concern," he replied.

"Then whose concern is it?"

"The robots'."

"But it is we who make the inspection."

"Ah, no," he smiled with relief at finally perceiving the source of my error. "The one has nothing to do with the other. We inspect the synchronization of processes, their tempo and efficiency, but we do not go into such details as selection. That is not our province. Apart from the fact that it is unnecessary, it also would be quite impossible, because today there are about eighteen automata for every living person; of these, five end their cycle daily and become sc.r.a.p. That amounts to something on the order of two billion tons a day. You can see for yourself that we would be unable to keep track of this, and in any case the structure of our system is based on precisely the opposite relationship: the automata serve us, not we them. . ."

I could not dispute what he said. Without another word I signed the papers. We were about to part when I surprised myself by asking him if humanoid robots were also produced.

"Not really," he said, and added reluctantly, "In their day they caused a bit of trouble. . ."