In fact, if I didn't do something, after Saturday there
would probably be no Don Morrison Fissionables Inc.

The dull, partly-corroded dishwasher model sidled up beside Jerry.
"Boss," he said. "Boss."

"Yes?" I felt better. Maybe here was someone, however insignificant,
who would listen to reason.

* * * * *

But he wasn't talking to me. "Boss?" he said again, tapping Jerry's
arm. "Do you mean it? We're free? We don't have to work any more?"

Jerry shook off the other's hand a bit disdainfully. "We're free, all
right," he said. "If they want to discuss wages and contracts and
working conditions, like other men have, we'll consider it. But they
can't order us around any more."

The little robot stepped back, clapping his hands together with a
tinny bang. "I'll never work again!" he cried. "I'll get me a quart of
lubricating oil and have myself a time! This is wonderful!"

He ran off down the street, clanking heavily at every step.

Jerry sniffed. "Liquor--ugh!"

This was too much. I wasn't going to be patronized by any android.
Infuriating creatures! It was useless talking to them anyway. No,
there was only one thing to do. Round them up and send them to
Cybernetics Lab and have their memory paths erased and their
telepathic circuits located and disconnected. I tried to stifle the
thought, but I was too late.

"Oh, no!" Jerry said, his eye-cells flashing crimson. "Try that, Mr.
Morrison, and you won't have a plant, or a laboratory, or Carron City!
We know our rights!"

Behind him the B-Types muttered ominously. They didn't like my
idea--nor me. I wondered what I'd think of next and wished that I'd
been born utterly devoid of imagination. Then this would never have
happened. There didn't seem to be much point in staying here any
longer, either. Maybe they weren't so good at telepathing by remote
control.

"Yes," said Jerry. "You may as well go, Mr. Morrison. We have our
organizing to do, and we're wasting time. When you're ready to listen
to reason and negotiate with us sensibly, come back. Just ask for me.
I'm the bargaining agent for the group."

Turning on his ball-bearing wheel, he rolled off down the street, a
perfect picture of outraged metallic dignity. His followers glared at
me for a minute, flexing their talons; then they too turned and
wheeled off after their leader. I had the street to myself.

There didn't seem to be any point in following them. Evidently they