erthrow of our form of government.
Even if I'm crazy, even if The Brain were not alive and a personality,
the Brainpower-Extension-Bill in itself would suffice to establish a
dictatorship of the machine. Does Scriven realize that?

Sometimes I feel as if I ought to shout it in the streets: "Wake up,
you people of America; you have defeated the dictators abroad but now a
new one has arisen in your midst. You all see him, touch him, you use,
you feed, you worship him, but under your loving care and devotion,
under the sacrifice of your very lives he has grown so enormous that you
know him not, this Idol of the machines, because it hides its head in a
nameless mountain and only his feet and fingers you sense."

But I'm not that type of a man and this is not the day and age where it
is possible to move the masses from a soap box in the streets.

Then what could I do; what could anybody do in my place?

* * * * *

Cephalon, Ariz., Nov. 22nd 4 a.m.

I'd pulled myself together for this meeting with The Brain. Arrived at
the P. G. at midnight. Everything normal and unchanged except that Gus
Krinsley told me this was his last night on the job. Gus has been
transferred to the Thorax. He hedged a bit, sounding me out just how
much I knew and when he learned I'd been there one night, he came
across:

'Did you see them Gog and Magog things? That's it; that's my new job
and how I hate it. Those darned Robots, they're scabs, that's what they
are and I of all people am supposed to be their instructor, teach them
how to operate machine tools on an assembly line. I asked them whether
they knew anything about the rights of organized labor in this country
but those dumbbells merely flopped their ears and kinda grinned. Got to
drill some holes into their squareheads to let a little reason in. I
tell you, Aussie, it scares the wits out of me the way they handle a
wrench with those steel fingers of theirs; they'd pull my nose off just
as soon as they would pull a nut. They _act_ intelligent and yet have no
sense of their own. While I'm having my lunch they stand around and
follow every bite I take as if to learn how to eat. I tell them to get
out of my sight and go over to the service station and get themselves
greased up. They obey and then it looks like hell to me as they squeeze
the grease into their tummies and all them nipples in their joints as if
they, too, were having their lunch, and maybe that's