Abruptly, Johnny motioned Westler down with a wave of his hand. "It looks like you're going to find out soon enough. Take a look."
Johnny parted the bushes in front of them. Here the dirt path had angled sharply toward the highway so that not more than thirty yards separated them. Marching silently along the concrete in the direction of New York, quiet but for the clanking of their joints, was a long file of Robots.
"Spongey metal foot-pads," whispered Westler, staring eagerly at the Robots. "We built fine fighting machines, Johnny, and now find we have to suffer the consequences."
Johnny nodded impatiently, hardly feeling philosophical. "This is what we came here for, Amos," he said. "Afraid?"
"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure yet."
Johnny was not sure, either, but did not want to brood about it. He stood up recklessly, forcing his way through the undergrowth toward the highway. By the time he reached it, Westler trailing uncertainly at his heels, he was shouting. It worked magically. The long line of Robots, extending as far as they could see to the left and several hundred yards to the right, stopped its steady advance. The great metal heads, each bigger than a man, swiveled on the sockets which joined them with the tiny bodies. The unblinking eyes which now faced them—another set for each Robot surveyed the rear, Johnny knew—were lined up row on row.
"We want to join you," Johnny called out. "We want employment in the Citadel." Did a human ask a Robot for employment? Johnny hardly knew, for nothing had been further from his mind until recently.
The leading Robot came back down the line toward them. Johnny could read nothing in the artificial eyes and had to check a wild impulse to run.
"Sometimes I prefer the uncomplicated life of an unimaginative man of action," Westler moaned softly.
It was, Johnny knew, a good point. He did not bother telling Westler that both traits had merged in him, which might have been better or worse, depending upon the circumstances.