* * * *

The elevator brought them back to the communication center where the
Terminal Cafeteria was ablaze with lights and where Dr. Scriven,
received his honored guests.

The guests were seated after the manner of a French restaurant, all in
one row, and as they raised expectant faces in the direction of the
service entrance "Gog and Magog" entered the room carrying trays with
refreshments which they served with the skill and the dignity of
accomplished waiters.

Gog and Magog were products of two assembly lines down in the Thorax.
Robots, still in an experimental stage, yet of remarkable perfection.
Both of them were about human size and approximately human-shaped but
the design of the two was different. Gog, the "light-duty" robot,
balanced itself by a gyroscope on a pair of stumpy legs, while the
"heavy-duty" Magog crawled noiselessly and rapidly on caterpillar
rubbertracks like a miniature tank. Of both types the arms were
uncommonly long and simian-like, but the remarkable progress made in the
engineering of prothesis after the Second World War had lent them
perfect articulation and sensitivity down to the last hydraulically
operated fingerjoint.

The photoelectric cells of their eyes looked pale and repulsive; the
square audion-screens of their ears however made up for that by the
comical precision with which they turned in every direction at the sound
of a commanding human voice. Their understanding of any given order
appeared perfect.

"Congratulations, Dr. Scriven, you've got the country's servant problem
licked at last."

"I wonder whether one could buy one and how much he would be?"

"First waiter who ever came when I called him."

"What a butler Gog would make, the perfect Jeeves. Could he learn to
answer the phone?"

"I bet he would even make a fourth at bridge."

"Magog, the check please."

"See, how he understands. He shakes his head; he says it's on the
house."

"Let's try to tip him: Gog, here's fifty cents for you; no he won't take
it."

"He has no use for it, no taste for a glass of beer, I suppose."

"What do you feed him, Dr. Scriven; a glass of electric juice for
breakfast? Is he AC or DC or both?"

Scriven's leonine face beamed; the stunt had come off.

Lee on the other hand had paled. He hadn't said a word ever since Gog
and Magog had trotted in. Now he took a silver dollar out of his pocket
and beckoning to Magog he handed it to him. "Magog, will yo