d from the sea.

With a muttered curse, Merrick flipped a toggle and the scene dimmed.
The face of a secretary appeared superimposed on it. It was the
expressionless face of an android, a fine example of the Creche's
production line. "Get Graves up here," he ordered, "You may find him
at Hypno-Central or in Semantic Evaluation."

"Very good, sir," intoned the android, fading from the screen.

Merrick looked at his wife. "Maybe Graves and I can think of
something."

"Don't plan anything rash, Han."

Merrick shrugged and turned back to watch the steady approach of the
procession of grey-frocked zealots in the ravine.

Graves appeared as the doorway dilated. He looked fearful and pale.
"You wanted to see me, Han?"

"Come in, Jon. Sit down."

"Have you seen the projectors those crackpots have set up in the
hills?" Graves demanded.

"I have, Jon. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"My God, Han! Do you have any idea of what it must feel like to die
from cortical stimulation?" Graves' voice was tense and strained.
"Can't we get out of here by 'copter?"

"No. The 'copters are both in Francisco picking up supplies. I ordered
them out yesterday. Besides, that wouldn't settle anything. There are
almost a thousand androids in the Creche as of this morning. What
about them?"

Graves made a gesture of impatience. "It's the humans I'm thinking
about."

Merrick forced down the bitter taste of disgust that welled into his
throat and forced himself to go on. "We have to take some sort of
action to protect the Creche, Jon. I've held off until the last
moment, thinking the Council would never allow a Fanatic to
investigate the Creche, but the Ten are more afraid of the HSP rubber
stamp vote than they are of letting a thousand androids be
slaughtered. But we can't leave it at that. If we don't prevent it,
Erikson will precipitate a pogrom that will make the Canalopolis
massacre look like a tea-party." For some reason he held back the
information about the effect of the Fanatic weapon on robot tissue.
The vague notion that knowing, Jon Graves might cast his lot with
Erikson, restrained him.

"Of course, Erikson will come in wearing an energy shield," Graves
said.

"He will. And we have none," Virginia Merrick said softly.

"Can we compromise with him?" Graves asked.

There it was again, Merrick thought, the weasel-word 'compromise.'
There was a moral decay setting in everywhere--the founders of the
Creche w