"But then he'll leave!" Pwowp said.
2615 shook its sensory assembly in the negative. "He'll retreat until he knows the instruments on the S.P. ship can't follow him. Then he'll circle back and land on the other side of the planetoid and come around on foot, with plans to get into the freighter and rescue the girl."
"I see what's in your mind, 2615," Pwowp said. "You wouldn't get the same satisfaction out of destroying them out there. You want them where you can crush them with your hands."
The robot looked down at its metal hands on long metal rods. It lifted them and brought the fingers together in a slow, crushing movement.
"I want to play with them," it said. "I want them all to myself."
Pwowp laughed. "You shall have them," he said. "And—you've proven yourself. We know now we can rely on you." In a matter-of-fact voice he added, "If either ship attempts to broadcast with enough power to send a message to any Space Patrol base we have an instrument that can dampen all radio frequencies."
Larry's eyes were bleak slits. He knew what Stella was planning. He knew it wouldn't work. Or would it? She was hoping the robot wouldn't kill her if she offered it a better ship. One it could use to better advantage than a clumsy conspicuous freighter. Whether the robot answered her or not, she intended to land, leave the sleek S.P. pursuit ship, go far enough away from it so that the robot could get to it and blast off. That was her reasoning. What she was overlooking was that the robot would have no inhibitions against killing her—and a very good reason to kill her. And Larry too. Revenge against humanity.
Fear. It was an acid vapor in the air, bathing his skin, searing his throat. It was deep rooted, that fear. As deep rooted as the fear in the heart of a murderer when he is known and trying to escape, and as real. Fear of a robot that remembers it is a dog.
Larry fought the fear out of his eyes so he could see, out of his mind so he could think.