"If that is Thy wish, True Jackson, you may go," said 76 submissively.
As he watched unbelievingly, a corridor opened in their ranks, extending toward the woods and the ship beyond. He glanced anxiously at his watch. There was still more than an hour left.
Wearily, he dropped from the ledge and trudged toward freedom, trying to look straight ahead. His eyes, nevertheless, wandered to the dejected figures who faced him with their heads bowed.
Then he laughed again, realizing the illogical nature of his solicitous thoughts. Imagine—dejected clunkers! Still, the metal faces seemed somehow different. Where, a moment earlier, he had fancied expressions of jubilation, now there was the sense of hopelessness on the steel plates.
Shrugging off his uncertainty, he walked faster. After all, was it his fault they'd stumbled upon a substitute for birth and death and had become something more than clunkers? What was he supposed to do—stay and play missionary, bring them the Truth so that when a deactivation crew came along, they would be so advanced morally that no one would suggest their destruction?
He stopped and scanned the ranks on either side. He'd do one thing for them, at least—he wouldn't report the wreck. Then it would be centuries, probably, before another ship wandered far enough away from the trade routes to intercept the distress signals.
Relieved by his decision, he went ahead more at ease.
And the litany started again—softly, appealing:
"Jackson is my Supervisor."