In His Image

by Bryce Walton

IN HIS IMAGE

By BRYCE WALTON

Towering and invulnerable, they stood on the
hills, patiently awaiting their master. Meanwhile,
they slew the vermin crawling below....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

---

Jon ran down the long corridor and into the Old Man's room. He was breathless as he threw himself on his face beneath the Old Man's chair made from gypsum. A kind of savage eagerness lighted his face, but the Old Man's face, a frozen pallid ball crinkled into a million lines, was sad and hopelessly resigned.

"I seen 'em," Jon cried. "I seen 'em." His unhealthily pallid body, though big and rawboned, was slender and writhed with a leathery strength that comes with constant effort and exercise rather than diet and sun.

The Old Man shrugged. His voice was a hoarse whisper in that one cavern among the hundred and fifty miles of corridors, interlocking levels and rivers that made up the underground hideaway.

"So you seen 'em, Jon. Many have seen the Mechs. The Mechs might have seen you too. If they ever find us here—well, they'd probe us out, like we were grubs. And they'd burn us with those red-ray eyes. Why'd you go up on top? You know it's against the rules."

Jon got up. His chest heaved. His eyes were polished beads in a thick nest of reddish beard.