All Jackson's Children

By DANIEL F. GALOUYE
Illustrated by FINLAY
Their chances hung literally on a prayer ... which they had to answer all by themselves!
Angus McIntosh vigorously scuffed the tarnished nameplate on the wrecked cargo carrier. Then he stepped back and squinted under shaggy gray eyebrows.
Letter by letter, number by number, he coaxed out the designation on the crumpled bow of the spacer in the vine-matted gorge: RT ... 3070 ... VG-II.
His lean frame tensed with concern as he turned to stare soberly at the other. A Vegan robot trader!
Bruce Drummond grinned. Are we lucky! Clunkers are worth money—in any condition.
Angus snorted impatiently. Let's get out of here, quick.
Get out? the stocky Drummond repeated incredulously as he ran thick-set fingers over the black stubble on his cheek. Ain't we going to salvage the clunkers? The book says they're ours after fifty years.
The hold's empty. There's no cargo.
There was when it landed. Look at the angle of incidence on those fins.
Exactly. Frowning, Angus shifted his holster around on his hip and strode back toward the plain. Ever hear of a frustrated compulsion?