t, than I had hoped." He did not elucidate.

I looked at Jon Rogeson. He shook his head slowly.

"You there--robot!" said Langley, looking at me. "How far across this
place?" The word was like a blow. I could not answer.

MS-33, glistening in the dying light of Mars, strode over to me,
clanking heavily up on the black rocks. He seized me with his grapples
and shook me until my wiring was in danger of shorting out. "Speak up
when you are spoken to, archaic mechanism!" he grated.

I would have struck out at him, but what use except to warp my own
aging limbs.

Jon Rogeson came to my rescue. "On Phobos," he explained to Langley,
"we don't use that word 'robot.' These folk have been free a long
time. They've quite a culture of their own nowadays, and they like to
be called 'metal people.' As a return courtesy, they refer to us
humans as 'builders.' Just a custom, Senator, but if you want to get
along with them--"

"Can they vote?" said Langley, grinning at his own sour humor.

"Nonsense," said MS-33. "I am a robot, and proud of it. This rusty
piece has no call to put on airs."

"Release him," Langley said. "Droll fellows, these discarded robots.
Really nothing but mechanical dolls, you know, but I think the old
scientists made a mistake, giving them such human appearance, and such
obstinate traits."

Oh, it was true enough, from his point of view. We had been mechanical
dolls at first, I suppose, but fifty years can change one. All I know
is this: we are people; we think and feel, and are happy and sad, and
quite often we are bored stiff with this dreary moon of Phobos.

It seared me. My selenium cells throbbed white hot within the shell of
my frame, and I made up my mind that I would learn more about the
mission of this Langley, and I would get even with MS-33 even if they
had me dismantled for it.

Of the rest of that week I recall few pleasant moments. We went out
every day, and the quick-eyed servants of Langley measured the areas
with their instruments, and exchanged significant looks from behind
their spectacles, smug in their thin air helmets. It was all very
mysterious. And disturbing.

But I could discover nothing about their mission. And when I
questioned MS-33, he would look important and say nothing. Somehow it
seemed vital that I find out what was going on before it was too late.

On the third day there was a strange occurrence. My friend, Jon
Rogeson had been taking pictures of the Dumps. Langl