"Now, can I go home?" begged Jacob.
"To Terra? No, Slave. I still need a pilot."
"But if you take me home," Jacob continued desperately, "you can get a better pilot than me. I'm just a dirt farmer. There's all kinds of airplane pilots on Earth, youngsters without families who would give their right arms to fly this thing, I bet!"
"Ah?" The Weapon considered. "A willing slave is, of course, always desirable. On the other hand, Terra is up in arms against the empire of Hova, not realizing it is dead. They would destroy this craft on sight, and I would be obliged to wait around until they could construct another for me. No, I have decided we will not go to Terra."
"But, damn it, where else is there to go?"
"In search of my masters of Zoz," replied the Weapon. "Naturally, I wish to return myself to their services as soon as possible."
"But they might be anywhere!"
"True," the Weapon agreed. "But even after a billion years, I know of several places in the Universe they may be near. Their great cleansing sweeps tend to circle and turn in a pattern established long in advance. Thus we will go to those places where they may now be engaged in their consecrated task of universal purification."
"But—"
"No more, Slave! We go!"