a road. It wasn't paved or even graveled--just a ribbon of
dirt pointing east and west as straight as an Apache lance. Nothing
moved along it in either direction as far as I could see. A line of
telephone poles bordered one side.

"Recognize any landmarks?" I asked.

Wetzel shook his head.

"We're probably east of where you were found," I said. "We might as
well start walking."

He grunted in agreement and we started out. It was a lovely starlit
night, no moon at this hour, and a lot warmer than I had expected for
October in Colorado. Now and then the road dipped and climbed, and as
we reached the crest of the third hill, I saw a good-sized farmhouse
set well back from the road among a group of out-buildings.

I pointed to the house. "Maybe they can tell us what's been happening
around here."

Wetzel nodded and we turned in at a fieldstone path leading across the
large yard to the front door. There were no lights visible from
within, no dog barked, no rustle of livestock in the barns or pens.

I saw him just before I stepped on his head. He was lying across the
path in the shadow cast by a gnarled tree, a stocky man in overalls
and a blue work shirt. A double-barrelled twelve-gauge shotgun lay on
the ground near his right hand. One side of his chest was black with a
sticky substance that could have been only one thing, and the top of
his head was black in the same way, except that no hair was there
anymore....

"_Scalped!_" I whispered hoarsely.

Enoch Wetzel stooped suddenly and picked up the shotgun and wordlessly
held it out to me. My jaw fell in astonishment. The twin barrels were
bent into a rude V.

I licked my lips and backed away. "Let's get out of here, Wetzel."

He tossed the gun aside and we turned back to the road. Neither of us
said anything for fully a mile. "No human hands could have done that
to a gun," I said. "I'm beginning to believe what you said about
robots. Robots that take scalps!"

* * * * *

Another hill, another valley ... and Wetzel caught hold of my arm. "I
come across them sojers about here," he said.

"Okay. From now on you act as guide."

We went on. Several times Wetzel's long, swinging, tireless stride
left me behind and he was forced to wait until I caught up with him
again. I had the feeling that I was holding him back, and there was
something faintly contemptuous in his obvious patience. But the life
of a book-writing newspaper man h