"At least." Drummond surveyed the expanse of metal bodies. "You know, maybe they don't have a function."
"Impossible. Hasn't been a clunker in five hundred years without a primary compulsion."
"Think they forgot theirs?"
"Can't. They may forget how to put it in words, but the compulsion is good for as long as their primary banks are intact. That's not what's worrying me, though."
"No?"
"Religious robots! There can't be any such brand. Yet here they are."
Drummond studied them silently.
"Before there can be theological beliefs," McIntosh went on, "there has to be some sort of foundation—the mystery of origin, the fear of death, the concept of the hereafter. Clunkers know they come from a factory. They know that when they're finally disassembled, they'll be lifeless scrap metal."
Drummond spat disdainfully. "One thing's for sure—this pack thinks we're God Almighty."
"Jackson Almighty," Angus corrected somberly.