"No. There are some remaining, deep in the soil. Central File says they are no longer of any danger. But File also retains orders to kill all organic things."
Jon moved toward them. He moved stiffly, a strange and intangible bulwark of purpose shielding him from the screaming horror.
Something of the awful indignity of his position shook him, sent a hot rage throbbing blindly past his temples. He heard his breath coming hard from tightened throat. These great nameless things—machines, intelligent metal, it didn't matter what. They had no idea of what he was, that he had a brain, that he could think. And yet, their gigantic thoughts were plain to him.
Some time, some time so very long ago, he—his kind—humans—had made these things. Had built them up from molten stuff, had put intricate interlocking machinery within them so that they could move, think for themselves, repair themselves. And then—humans had launched the Big War, had released seething seas of basic energy, and somehow these gigantic shiny silvery things had begun to—live.
But to them, Jon, a human, a descendant of the humans that had made them and had given them life, was less than the dirt under their towering, invulnerable radiance. Less than the dust beneath their sweeping red-death eyes. They had no conception that he was anything but a pale, crawling, cave-worm.
Jon walked closer. He was not so much afraid for himself now. There was more of a sweeping terror of the whole situation, the terrible futility and irony. He wasn't afraid to die, and he knew that he had to die now, that there was no escape, no defiance.
He shook his fist at the silent, towering forms. "Damn you! It's me. Man. Man. I'm human. I'm not crawlin'. See, I'm not crawlin', I'm talkin' to you. I'm talkin' and I'm thinkin', too. See."
"It's making noises."
"Yes. All the various species of organic life make noises peculiar to their type. Have you not seen a grub before?"