"What's a planet?" another wanted to know.
McIntosh leaned back hopelessly against the cliff. All of their memories and a good deal of their vocabularies had been lost. He could determine how much only through days of conversation. It would take weeks to learn their function, to rekindle a sense of duty sufficiently strong to draw their interest away from religion. Unless—
He drew resolutely erect. "Strip the converters! Pull the aft tube lining!"
The robots looked uncomprehendingly at him. It was obvious they weren't trained for spacecraft maintenance.
But it had to have something to do with mechanics. "A battle fleet is orbiting at one diameter! Arm all warheads on the double!"
They stared helplessly at one another, then back at Angus. Not ordnancemen.
"Pedestrian Strip Number Two is jammed! Crane crew, muster on the right!"
The robots shifted uncertainly. Apparently they weren't civic maintenancemen, either.
Defeated, Angus scanned their blank face plates. For a moment, it was almost as though he could discern expressions of confusion. Then he laughed at the thought that metal could accommodate a frown.
Suddenly the robots shifted their gaze to the cave. Drummond, shoulders sagging dismally, walked out and squinted against the glare. Several of the robots started toward him.