The print below the picture was indiscernible, except for the subject's last name....
"Jackson!" Drummond whispered.
Angus slowly replaced the card. "A hundred years of false devotion," he said pensively. "Just think—"
"This is no time for that kind of gas." Drummond glanced at his watch. "We got just two hours to cut off those converters." Desperately, he faced the robots. "Hey, you clunkers! You're robot assemblers. You got four hundred clunkers in that cave, all in pieces. Get in there and put 'em together!"
Angus shook his head disapprovingly. Somehow it didn't seem right, calling them clunkers.
"Jackson is my Supervisor!" intoned RA-204.
"Jackson is my Supervisor!" echoed the mass.
Drummond glanced frantically at his watch, then looked helplessly at Angus. Angus shrugged.
The younger man's face suddenly tensed with resolution. "So they've got to have a Jackson? All right, I'll give 'em one!"
He waved his fist at the horde. "I'm your Supervisor! I'm your Jackson! Now clear out of the way and—"